Look at those chunks of chicken warming so innocently in the bain-marie.
All the while inside them sleep groups of atoms arranged into long chains of trans fats, missing hydrogen in various spots making them kinked and unwieldy molecules.
Gathered like armies in that delicious, crunchy skin, they are set to tumble through your arteries, the sticky ends of their molecule chain groping blindly in the dark of your bloodstream, latching onto water, other fats, or the blood vessel wall.
There they’ll wait, accumulating more of their kinky comrades to form megamolecules, until one day they dislodge and tumble along your wine-dark river, fording the tributaries of arteries, rafting into the arteriole runs, only to lodge at the branching mouth of a stream of capillaries deep inside your brain.
Dammed, the red river piles up. The blood vessel quivers like a over-filled water balloon, and bursts its banks.
This is a picture of death. Delicious, crunchy death.