I Could Have Powered the Hindenburg: On Hubris, Legumes, and the Limits of Control

What I Learned Farting for Twenty Minutes Straight

Yesterday I made red lentils. This alone should not be controversial.

At the suggestion of ChatGPT, who I asked to make a high protein vegan menu, I blended silken tofu into them to increase the protein. In theory: impeccable. In practice: genuinely delicious. I ate the lentil-tofu mixture over quinoa and congratulated myself on my competence. Roughly 30 grams of protein. I even had two helpings. Still not a large volume of food. A sensible, adult meal.

Reader, this is where pride enters the narrative.

At approximately 1:00 a.m., I woke with gas pain of such intensity that I briefly wondered whether I had offended God and summoned a colon demon. I rolled onto my left side and farted continuously for twenty minutes. Not politely. Not sporadically. A single, sustained atmospheric event. Eventually, the storm passed, order was restored, and I fell back asleep.

Later, I got up to feed Sophie. It was dark, so I bent over to grab the flashlight I keep by the back door.

And when I bent over, I farted louder than I ever have in my entire life.

This was not merely audible. It was existential. I felt it move through my entire body. Sophie jumped. I froze, standing there in the dark, as if I’d just felt the Earth remind me who actually runs things.

I reported the incident to ChatGPT, who responded with the calm neutrality of a seasoned observer of human folly: “Ah yes. Tofu and lentil fermentation events. You may want to lay off those for a few days.” (Really? You couldn’t have mentioned that with the menu, ChatGPT?)

So let this be a public service announcement:

Do not blend tofu with lentils unless you wish to conduct a fermentation experiment inside your intestines.

But also—perhaps—let this be a reminder. The body is not a spreadsheet. Efficiency has limits. Optimization will not save us.

Sometimes you think you’re nourishing yourself, and instead you summon a force that cannot be reasoned with, only endured. You can read all the labels, count all the macros, and still be undone by a cup of legumes and a little soy hubris.

In the end, you will bend over to pick up a flashlight in the dark, and your own ego will speak through you anyway. Friends, I could have powered the Hindenburg.

The body is not a spreadsheet, but it is a teacher. And sometimes the lesson is simply: you are not in charge. You are meat with aspirations. You are a biosphere you cannot fully govern. And all your competence, all your careful calculations, will eventually meet a cup of lentils with silken tofu and discover their limits.

Later today, I have physical therapy. I’m going anyway. Because the body that humbles you is also the body that heals, that learns, that moves through the world.

I’ll warn my physical therapist.