No comment.
Via Cosmopolitan:
I stared at the crimson-colored organ sealed in industrial-strength Tupperware and labeled with the international symbol for biohazard.
My wife’s placenta.
It was the size of a whoopee cushion, sprawling with thick blood vessels, dripping in amniotic fluid, and trailing a slimy umbilical cord.
I was clueless and more than a little repulsed by the thought of cooking my wife’s afterbirth. But since I knew of no butcher who handled human placenta, I had to take to it myself with my sharpest chef’s knife.