For sixteen years, starting at age nineteen, I didn’t eat animals. Cheese? Sure. Eggs? Of course. Fish? Nope. Chicken, Beef, Ham? No, definitely not and no way. Did my sophomore summer preparing fries and spending hours soaking up the smell of sizzling ground-beef patties have anything to do with it? Or was it the ethical quandary surrounding the mass slaughtering of animals to produce the millions and billions of hamburgers my employer sold? Perhaps it was a concern for health—cholesterol, arteries and all of that? How about the ecological and humanitarian costs of putting so many resources and energy into this food source when, if they were instead applied toward producing other non-animal foods could provide nutrition for ten times as many people and seemingly solve many food crises? When I didn’t want to make my meal companions too uncomfortable or felt like giving them a little surprise while I got on with my salad or meatless casserole I would answer their queries questioning my vegetarianism with this statement: ‘I just don’t like the taste’. Truth be told, that was a lie, and my reasons did include some of the typical environmental, health and moral reasons many vegetarians give, but it was fun to say and entertaining to see the shock register on the meat-lovers' faces.
Then one summer in the middle of triathlon season a few years ago I felt like I needed something more in my diet, tried elk stir-fry from a local farmers market, a week later visited a former student on his dairy farm where we received a few pounds of fresh ground meat and then grilled it up back home. My first burger in sixteen years. In theory it shared similar origins with the burgers I’d worked with years earlier, but somehow (the fact that the meat came from one cow and not dozens, one cow whose diet was mostly grass, and one who was not packed in with others all of her life may have had something to do with it) this one was so much better. There was no turning back. And no, I didn’t get sick.
In Italy the opportunities to eat meat abound. Since I’ve been eating meat for several years now the dietary transition moving over here definitely wasn’t as difficult as it could’ve been (I did come across mention of a society for vegetarians in Italy but don’t think their numbers will threaten to put any meat growers out of business in the next century or two). I can’t believe I’d lived all of those years without prosciutto! And the steak I had the other night, cooked (slightly), sliced in quarter inch strips and topped with fresh-pressed olive oil, arugula and shaved parmesan! So satisfying on a primal level, and pretty darn tasty, too.
I have trouble imagining consuming octopi, organs, veal, heads and eyeballs, although I do admit to eating rabbit. Once. The second time I saw a rabbit here it was missing only its fur and skin. Pink, shiny, and stretched out on its side behind the glass display, this bunny was not hopping anywhere. It was Monday and I’d gone to the local butcher’s shop to look for a bird we’d be needing soon. The rabbit’s eye met mine.
When I was a vegetarian I used to think that if I were to eat meat ever again I should be prepared to slaughter the animal myself. Were I starving and looking for meat for survival I don’t doubt my capability to do so, but in this first-world corner of the planet I am fortunate enough to inhabit the thought of doing so still slightly sickens me. Nevertheless, even now as a meat eater I think it couldn’t hurt for everyone back in the States who eats meat to, if not slaughter once themselves, at least see the process done, or maybe visit one of the butcher’s shops like those over here where everything is so much more…alive, or recently alive anyway. Where it is obvious what part of the body that chunk of meat is, or which animal it is, that it is an animal. Call it a reality check.
Anyway, I felt reminded that what I was looking for was also an animal, and that it would be killed and prepared for my family and me. They didn’t have it, but after a minute on the phone my butcher said it was all set. Without taking my name or phone number, he simply told me to come back in two or three days. When I returned Thursday he went in the back room while my mind conjured up various versions of what this 6-7 kg bird might look like. Would some feathers still be in? Head (eyes)? Claws? But no, there were no obvious parts left on that we wouldn’t see back home, and in fact its innards had also been handily scooped out for us. Was this because the butcher knew what I, as an American would expect? Or was it just typical for this bird (and I’ve seen little hens—entire little hens—shrink-wrapped on small foam plates at the grocery store)? When he brought our turkey out the lady next to me exclaimed in admiration and smiled, chattering with the butcher about the bird and possible steps to prepare it. I paid and took the heavy and soft bird—thankfully we wouldn’t have to defrost this one—and we set about making our meal.
Except the oven didn’t work. It soon became clear that I was to do anything possible to remedy the situation ASAP. After frantically calling the owner of our house and then the realtor who sometimes helps out, explaining our situation and trying to understand the waves of Italian rushing at me through the phone, I finally found a switch. The switch. Yes, apparently all of the other times we’d used the oven the switch had been flipped on, unbeknownst to us, and therefore we’d been unaware said switch even existed! So the oven heated, the bird cooked, and Carol and Michael joined us during their visit all the way from Massachusetts for a wonderful Thanksgiving meal. Being so far from home, familiarity and routine made this tradition (which we often share with Carol and Michael and other family at their house) ever more poignant and important. The Italians went about their daily Thursday routine as every other but in our home the American holiday was alive and well. Ingrid and Niko smiled and laughed more, fought less, rallied with us around the common goal of producing and enjoying this special meal and enjoyed lots of playtime with their grandparents on the soccer field, reading a book or putting together and flying a toy jet fighter. For hours the house took on the rich and comforting smell of the meal that was coming together.
I had so much to be thankful for and first and foremost on the list was family. The wars and hate in the world hadn’t gone away but they were still outnumbered by peace and love and on that day the politics, economics and environmental consequences of food production and food choice just didn’t bother me. The world I see every day is multi-hued, filled with contradictions, more free-response than true or false. So when I took a bite of that turkey there was no ex-vegetarian’s remorse, no guilt, and no sense of lost ideals. What I felt was extreme satisfaction in the moment, a profound communion with family and with the cycle of life. An animal had died but nourished all of us. Who knows, maybe I'll return to a non-meat diet in the months or years to come, but for this third Thursday in November, Mr. Turkey, I would like to extend to you my deepest thanks.
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