For the first time in a long time, I don’t smell like cow manure. Here in Oakland, California, 3,000 miles from my home on a farm in upstate New York, I’m walking into the Impossible Foods production facility, a massive polygon of beige rectangles that can squish out a million pounds of plant-based meat a month. I’m a farmer in training and butcher, which means this place threatens to render my entire field of work obsolete. There’s gotta be a punch line around here somewhere.

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