Taste Test

William Seabrook was a journalist, active during the years of 1919 to 1945, whose thirst for esoteric knowledge was only matched by his thirst for booze. He got his start in the news business as a reporter and later editor for the August Chronicle of Georgia. After World War One, he contributed articles to the New York Times, Vanity Fair, and Reader's Digest.

Perhaps it was the suffocating boredom of Reader's Digest that pushed Seabrook into a life of world travel. He was fascinated by occult practices and foreign mysticism, and sought out then-unusual locales to investigate. He wrote accounts of his time spent with the Bedouins and Kurds of Saudi Arabia, the habits of voodoo practitioners of Haiti, his adventures with daredevil pilots, and what must have been an extremely stressful weekend with self-proclaimed evil wizard Aleister Crowley. In adherence to journalistic standards, he claimed to never embellish his stories, but the books were very much like pulp novels in their subject matter.


In addition to these pursuits, Seabrook also dabbled in culinary criticism, submitting perhaps the definitive analysis of the taste and texture of....human flesh. For Seabrook, cannibalism was apparently just another exotic experience to write about. The man had books to sell, after all.

While visiting the tribes of West Africa, Seabrook met up with some cannibals and was disappointed when they were unable to fully articulate the process of cooking and eating people. Determined to find out for himself, Seabrook departed for France and somehow managed to get a large chunk of flesh from a hospital. He proceeded to get a stew going and the results were apparently delicious, with Seabrook comparing human to "fully developed veal."

The decision to become a cannibal may or not have been made under the influence of alcohol. Despite checking himself into a mental institution to deal with his addiction (which he wrote about in his book Asylum) Seabrook's alcoholism lead to the ruination of his marriage to novelist Marjorie Worthington, which in turn lead to his suicide in 1945. Aleister Crowley marked the occasion in his diary, referring to the Seabrook as a "swine-dog."

An indecent epitaph, even for a cannibal.


But don't take my word for it!
-You can read about it in a book!

The Latest Dance Craze is...Death!

The next time you get that spontaneous urge to tap your feet and bust out some moves...beware. It could be a sign that you're not well. In fact, it might mean that you're stricken by an illness that once swept through medieval Europe.

I speak, of course, of the Dancing Plague.

In July of 1518, in the city of Strasbourg, France, a woman stepped out of her home and walked through an alley. Her name was Frau Troffea, and she was patient zero. She began a frantic dance in the middle of the street and continued to dance into the night. Five days later, Troffea was delirious from exhaustion, but still dancing. Soon the crowds of onlookers were compelled to join in the dance, and they too were unable to stop. More and more people were absorbed into the vortex of stomping feet and flailing arms. By August, four hundred people were dancing in the streets of Strasbourg, and they were dropping like proverbial flies thanks to heart attacks, strokes, and dehydration. 

The authorities were bewildered, and issued an order for halls to be opened and musicians to play, in hopes that the dance would subside if properly facilitated. Their plan failed, and in the end the dancers were forcibly rounded up and deported to a shrine in hopes that the power of prayer could cure them. It took another month before the Plague started to clear up. Those who survived could offer no insight into what prompted their non-stop boogie.

Remarkably, this incident is only one of ten accounts of infectious dance-a-thons. It's the best documented, but there are records of other outbreaks going as far back as the 1300's. This was not some apocryphal medieval folktale, like the Flying Saint of Cupertino. This was the real deal. So, the question that immediately springs to mind is: why did these ordinary people start dancing themselves to death?

Scientists have found no conclusive origin for the Plague but various theories have been forth. One commonly held notion is that the people of Strasbourg had eaten wheat contaminated by Ergot mold, which produces spectacularly unpleasant hallucinations and convulsions. This idea has a major problem, however, as all accounts very clearly describe rhythmic dancing and not the violent spasms associated with Ergot. 

The other possible answer is mass hysteria. Medieval France was a rough place to live, and perhaps after a lifetime of storms, famines, and genuine diseases, these superstitious people just snapped. There are other noted examples of contagious, compulsive behavior, so perhaps the Dancing Plague was just one big freak-out.

As this mysterious ailment still has no known cure, I think that we ought to prepare for worse in case there's a modern outbreak. I suggest rigorous regulation of all extended club mixes of pop songs and a ban on stylish discotheques. No one wants a public health emergency, even if it means destroying dubstep.

Would you like to know more?

-Read this article from the BBC

-Read this article from Discover.Com 

House of God, House of Dog

There are around 10,000 saints officially recognized by the Catholic Church. That may seem like a lot, but it's actually a very exclusive club. In order to be officially canonized by the Vatican, one must have lived a life of extraordinary virtue and service, and performed at least two miracles (sometimes posthumously). Supernatural acts have always been hard to come by and harder to authenticate, and even then sainthood isn't assured. For instance, in 13th century France, loyal and selfless Guinefort of Lyon was said to have healed infants after his death. His village swore by his holiness. The Church condemned this practice as demon-worship and superstition.

Problem was, Guinefort was a dog.

As the story goes, Guinefort was a greyhound owned by a local knight with a newborn son. When the knight left to go hunting, the dog was left to watch over the baby. While it may have been a more sensible idea to have a neighbor do this, it speaks to level of trust between master and dog. One day, after returning from the forest, the knight was horrified to find his son missing and Guinefort soaked in blood. Thinking that the dog had eaten his child, the knight hacked Guinefort to pieces. This proved to be a tragic error, as once the knight had finished he heard the cries of his son from beneath an overturned crib. The child was unharmed and nearby the knight discovered the body of a viper. Guinefort had killed the snake to protect the baby and was rewarded for his heroism with death.

Mourning the loss of his dog, the knight threw the body down a well and planted trees in Guinefort's honor. Soon news of this brave animal reached the village, and the commoners arrived to pay tribute. Some brought their children to be blessed, and Guinefort was ultimately venerated as a community saint; his watery grave rebuilt into a shrine. 13th century scholar Stephen of Bourbon wrote of Guinefort and his worshippers in disparaging terms, alluding to sacrifice and unholy pacts. After this bit of bad press, the Church prohibited Guinefort idolatry, and yet the cult endured as late as the 1930's before dying out.

Would you like to know more?
-Read Stephen of Bourbon's original account of Saint Guinefort

Beauty Killed the Beast

November is about to flatline and accordingly, it's time to serve up another monster for your reading pleasure. We at the Hyper Kitchen are proud to introduce the tragic Tarasque, a creature from the medieval folklore of France.

According to legend, the Tarasque had an especially impressive lineage, as it was the spawn of the biblical Leviathan (which, depending on who you ask, was either a colossal sea-serpent or a monstrous fish). Despite its aquatic parentage, the Tarasque was strictly landlocked. It crawled on six, bear-like legs and had the head of a lion. Its shaggy, scaly body was protected by an enormous tortoise shell and its tail had the deadly sting of a scorpion. The Tarasque wandered the countryside of Nerluc, Gaul, laying waste to villages and devouring those poor bastards who tried to stop it. One day, while the Tarasque was busy gnawing on the bones of its latest victim, the beast was discovered by the wandering Saint Martha. Rather than fleeing in terror, Martha bathed the Tarasque in holy water and showed it the cross. The power of Christ compelled the savage Tarasque to abandon its evil ways.

Entirely tame, the Tarasque followed Martha back to Nerluc. The villagers, horrified at the monster's arrival, hurled their spears. Turning the other cheek as Jesus would have done, the Tarasque never fought back, and perished from their injuries. Saint Martha admonished the villagers for slaying the monster, and she promptly converted the lot of them to Christianity. The now pious villagers sought to repent for their actions and re-named their village in honor of the murdered monster. Thus the city of Tarascon was founded. To this day, the inhabitants of Tarascon celebrate the Tarasque on the last Sunday of every June, and it can also be seen on their official flag.

Still, let this be a warning: beware of strange women bearing holy water. You'll wind up being speared to death.

Would you like to know more?

-Read more about Tarascon here

-Sprechen sie Deutsch? Read this article on the Tarasque