Personal notes in the experience behind the field work in creating Little Augustus: A First-Hand Account of the Urban Roman Diet in 20 BCE.
Coming to ArXiv sometime in the future.
What no author predicted about time machines is that “chicken or beef” became one option tasting of both and neither. Rewinding to Augustus in third class meant conditions that prepared you for the arrival. A third dread appeared in me by the third spoonful, it was the first one not about meat, it was now about that some time in the now-far-future, grant money is going to dry.
I complained about the way the in-rewind meal transformed from kung pao chicken into ur-food into Roman pork stew, which is still food, which is fine. The part I resented most was cutting a chunk and finding myself holding chopsticks halfway through. And then you are in the bowels of a trireme eating reasonably well-prepared salt-pork. The stewardess is now dressed like Cassandra, and I notice I am in a loincloth. The cart is a breadbasket; peanuts will not be available for another 1,500 years.
I understand what I ask for will require a fundamental change in the technology. I ask anyway.
Upon coming home, I looked at the poor sod at the check-in counter. He doesn’t yet know he hates garum, or has spent a month dodging lead poisoning. The attendant saw my safe return and waved him through. I will have to wait — what, half an hour? — for his hoodie to go up two floors to the arrivals.
The hoodie still has that Cheeto smell from the trip to the timeport, which was ninety minutes ago. I paid for four hours of parking and I overpaid by two.
The chicken should be done marinating.