Meat and Greet

Sure, I have my faults. Aside from the big-ticket items, and just off the top of my head, I’d say -- big feet, bad temper, atrocious spelling, and the inability to ever return a library book on time.

And there’s that little problem about finishing things I start.

I’ve started as a vegetarian, over and over again. And confronted many a failure with some A1 sauce.

This summer, I joined a group of environmentally concerned carnivores and bought a portion of a a schoolgirl’s 4-H project. Mary had a little lamb, and I’ve got the leg in my freezer to prove it.



My thought was, if I must eat meat, at least let it have been humanely raised and respectfully treated. In other words, happy meat.

Apparently, there's a growing movement promoting spiritual carnivorousness that goes way way beyond my modest attempt at compassionate consumption. This conclusion is based on the emails from the group, emails asking the organizer if they could know the lamb’s name, post a photo, visit the lamb while she was still, uhm, with us. Someone suggested a field trip.

Suddenly it seemed like some kind of virgin sacrifice. And I started feeling pretty darned sad as doomsday approached.

I don’t ever want to meet my meat. I don't want to know the color of its eyes or that it liked to be scratched behind the left ear. I want some distance between us, a cushion of time and space.

All this to say, while shanks and chops and other significant lamb bits cool their heels in my freezer, I’ve once again gone vegetarian.

Which of course means there will be no barbecue. If history repeats itself and memory serves, not for at least another two or three weeks.