Meat

In elementary school I had a friend who was a vegetarian (her last name, Burger, was a hilarious textbook example misnomer). She had chosen the herbivore life after one day, age eight, she accompanied her mom to a butchery and saw too much dead flesh to ever eat an animal again. Well, I now understand where she's coming from.

The picture below is of a road that I call death row. Its the line for the chopping block. You'll in one day and see ten cows, them go the next day and see nine. They moo so mournfully that it's impossible not to be sad for them. Add that sentiment with the one I feel when I'm at the butchery, where you see the meat being chopped off the ribs... and I'm afraid I just have to be vegetarian. I've never eaten ribs or chicken wings, not because I don't like the taste, but because the bones remind me that I'm eating something that once had organs and a heart beat. I'm much more of a chicken nugget or hot dog girl, really.

I expect this vegetarian streak to end any day. It's not a moral protest in any way, just that eating meat would make me feel viscous. If somebody served a dish with meat cooked into it, I'd eat it not to be rude, I guess. And I certainly salivate for pepperoni or a Jamaican beef patty. Oh, an Octoberfest sausage with honey mustard? Sign me up. Anything that I can forget came from an animal. But until then, it's no meat for me.