These zombie fossils of history can be tangible, visceral, carried in the stuff that surrounds us and that we consume. We live off, live from, this environment forged by contingent history. As we ingest it, the fruits of such histories become part of us. No history is pure; no one’s history is pure; what nourishes us is also tainted. You might say that, even as we sit down and give thanks for what’s on the table, there is always a legacy to lament too. Every “grace” is a confrontation.
