The tentative vegetarianism of my youth was more a comment on my ability to get grossed out than any socio-political commitment. Another reason, one that still stays with me, is that I don’t want to benefit from or wallow in another living being’s pain (save your healthy dose of schadenfreude). I love bacon, and I do enjoy a mid-well fillet, but I’m still far more enamored with the vegetables on my plate than I am with any cut of meat. One thing I know about myself that will undoubtedly annoy the army of vegetarians around me is that I can not eat meat if I am too reminded of where it comes from, and even moreso if I know that the meat that I am eating comes from an animal that had a shitty, restricted, joyless life.
Several months ago, dear Chef brought home a large book on cooking meat that he pored over for hours at a time, insisting on reading me passages aloud, in the same way that I bug him by reading blog passages aloud, that ooged me to the nth degree, oftentimes illustrated by, say, a photo of a cute, fuzzy-headed duck peering out of a linen sack on one page, and it’s cousin on the next, sliced limb by limb, seared and sauteed, and covered in a delicious mustard sauce. This kind of thing requires too much willful cognitive dissonance on my part, and I demanded he stop immediately if he ever wanted me to eat his food again, becuase there are three things that are certain when you live with a French chef: 1) you will gain weight, and 2) you will eat more meat.
3) Bacon.
There’s something ironic in the knowledge that my chef husband, the one who learned to cook because of his decade-long vegetarianism, is now the meat-pusher, the one trying to get me to consume stinky fish (which doesn’t always suck) and bloody steak (which does), the one frequently found sitting in the dark alone in the living room sucking marrow out of a bone so as to avoid my judgement and disgust. The good news is that Ethan is growing up in a house where asparagus and brussel sprouts are delightful instead of gross, and one in which the person barefoot in the kitchen is a big, funny dude with a beard, not a little lady in an apron. I still can’t get beyond the idea of meat.
A couple of years ago Hugo wrote about how, despite the widespread Friday Cat Blogging trend, he was still unnerved by cats. Hugo runs a chinchilla rescue, and because chinchilla pets are often the prey of cat pets he had a hard time seeing cats as anything other than predators of the things he loved. I remember blowing off the idea at the time, but regardless the idea stuck with me. I sometimes gaze at Doug with the stinkeye, Pablo especially, because both of them have bloodlust for the other animals I love. Birds, squirrels, especially birds. Just like I have to ignore where meat comes from, I have to ignore that my pets are the predators they are.
Some part of me wants to believe that we’re all in this big, crazy utopia where herbivores eat greens and omnivores and carnivores eat tofu look-alikes and we all live together in a happy world where no animal is ever hurt through malice, need, or oversight, and everyone dies in happiness of old age. Which is why, even as an obsessive cat lover, even a big cat lover, I totally rooted for the buffalo in this video:
Video via The Machinist
I’m a most-of-the-time-vegetarian. We never buy meat for at home, but if we go to family or friends’ homes and meat is served, we/I might eat it.
The Partner and I watched “Supersize Me” and that helped us to make changes in our lives and to be more conscious of what we put in our bodies/consume.
Even though you said otherwise, I believe the reasons you gave for your aversion to meat ARE socio-political reasons. You have a hard time eating meat for the same reasons I do: it either creeps me out (I find shrimp to be downright weird to chew) or, most often (and the socio-political reason), I consciously know an animal was killed but I’m not sure how. I don’t know about you, but when I hear horror stories on the news about factory farms or “meat processing plants”, they stay with me for a very long time and that influences my (in)ability to consume meat.
Most recently, however, reading Twisty’s post, Bacon, I bid you farewell, put me over the edge. Sometimes I get physically ill thinking about meat now. She also makes an excellent argument over why a feminist cannot eat meat–or at least meat who’s story you know nothing of.
I have been a periodical vegetarian in the past, and actually have a vegetarian friend living in my apartment at the moment, which means that I don’t buy meat products (thankfully, she eats fish). Some people don’t get how I can manage without meat, but I actually like vegetables as much, or more, than meat. Meat dishes just have the advantage that they are fairly easy to make fast, and in a varied way.
Regarding brussel sprouts, then there is no way that they can be delightful. They are horrible, and should be used for throwing. All other vegetables are fine, but those small vile things are not (I grew up with a mother who loved them, and served them regularly, so it’s not just a matter of not having given them a chance).
Completely unrelated - I can’t get into neither Hugo’s blog or feministe - do you know if there is any issues with those sites?