It's not where's the beef, it's what's in the beef.

I visited John in Massachusetts in February. He had lost about 30 pounds and his cholesterol has come down from very high to a low of 150, as if I know what exactly that is supposed to mean. He looked very well, and he didn't have the pudgy face that he had acquired over the years while he lived on the east coast. I asked him how he had been able to control his cholesterol, and he said that he was no longer eating beef.

I am writing tonight in the middle of the night, the night after Stefan's birthday, because I think something was in the beef I ate for supper. I can't sleep. I am wound up; my heart is beating faster than it should beat. What do they feed those animals before they get slaughtered? Do I need to stop eating beef, too?

There is a very bright moon out tonight. It is casting sharp shadows over the grass, and there is a fragrance in the air that slows my steps as I look out towards the two white cars in front. What a beautiful night. But sleep would be even more beautiful. What are they putting into the beef?