“Did you and dad eat the raw-violi I left in the fridge?”“Sort of. I mean, we considered eating it. It made its way onto the table. But we ended up having the rest of the rawkin’ raw-sagna instead. (Rawkin’ raw-sagna: a sorry excuse for a real lasagna made with uncooked squash slices, tomatoes, and cashew paste, and served on—what else?—Elvis dinner plates). I don’t have the heart to tell her that dad chucked both dinners and ordered us a pizza.”

“If there hadn't been women we'd still be squatting in a cave eating raw meat, because we made civilization in order to impress our girlfriends.”

“But Dad, you were a grown man, you have got to take responsibility for what you did, too! I mean, you made me eat [snotty] Kleenex, Dad! For Christ's sake, you can't do that to a little girl! You have got to say you're sorry for the stuff you did as a grown man!''Well,' Dad snorts, 'I musta done something right! 'Cause you never left any snot rags lying around the house again, now, did you?”

“I invited my girlfriend over and made her dinner. I didn’t cook, but I did eat her.”

“Ling offered him the last slice of melon. “Sorry. I ate everything. I’m starving. I could eat a horse. And I love horses. Beautiful creatures. But I’d eat one whole. Raw.”“I’d settle for eggs and bacon,” Gabriel said.”

“This toast feels raw. Is it safe to eat raw toast?”