Foie Gras Faux Pas

One unintended - but very welcome - consequence of becoming a meat-eater is that people start inviting you over for dinner. Our social lives have vastly improved. (Veggies take note: your carnivorous friends and co-workers have dinner parties that they don't tell you about. Trust me, they do.)

Thankfully, we came out in time to be invited to a French Christmas Eve dinner last year at the home of our friends Gibouille and Elise.

This is the kind of event that strikes both excitement and fear in the heart of a born-again carnivore. At a restaurant we can pick and choose the meat we feel comfortable with; at someone's home you have to eat what you are served. Or at least try it. Mom said so.

I was a little nervous as we set out...Christmas Eve dinner with a bunch of French people? Please, God, don't let there be any organ meats or gelatinous textures. I was not ready for that.

We arrived fashionably late at 7:30, and were the first guests there. I had a Ricard and helped to set the table. Then I had a beer. And another beer. And a kir. Around 9pm, the other guests started to arrive. We had champagne.

I was standing in the dining area with the only other American there. Everyone else was outside smoking. Gibouille came in and dropped a baking sheet full of bacon-wrapped prunes on the table. "Amuse bouche," he said, and went out to join the smokers. I hadn't eaten all day and scarfed down 7 or 8 of them.

Finally, more champagne was opened and everyone came to the table. We had a toast, then Gibouille and Elise started to serve the first course. Foie gras.

Oh god, there it was. The most politically-incorrect of all meats. A slab of foie gras the size of a pork chop was sitting in front of me.

I'd never had foie gras before. I'd never had liver before. I'd never even had duck before. I thought about politely saying something like, "Oh, I'm so sorry, but I don't eat foie gras," but I'm sure no one would have heard me. The French people were busy letting out little shrieks of glee, making loud yummy noises, and saying things like "oh la la" (yes, French people really do say that!). I looked over at Jason - he was digging right in - and he shot me the look that means, "This shit is goooood."

The room was spinning a little. I didn't know if it was the alcohol or the scent of tortured ducks in the air. The foie gras was mocking me, daring me to eat it. On my right shoulder, an angelic miniature Morrissey begged me not to savour the flavour of murder. On my left, a tiny evil Anthony Bourdain said "Don't be a pussy. Do you really want to humilate yourself in front of half the French waiters in the city?"

I confided in the guy sitting next to me. "Ummm, I've never had foie gras before. I'm a little afraid of it."

"Oh my god, this is the best thing. You have to eat this," he said. He prepared a piece for me - a little bread, a lot of foie gras, a little fig compote. I took a bite.

I was surprised...it doesn't really taste meaty. It's a little sweet, a little savory. Oh yes, I get it now...it fills your mouth with velvet. It's so smooth and delicious. It doesn't taste like torture at all. It's like ambrosia. I'm amazed. I'm impressed. I'm overwhelmed. I'm going to be sick.

No one notices as I leave the table, they are all too wrapped up in their foie gras-induced ecstasy. But the bathroom is not far from the table and when I come back, everyone knows.

"Did you just get sick?" Gibouille asked.

"Yeah...but I'm okay now," I say. I sat down and KEPT EATING. This, my friends, is the most punk rock thing I've ever done in my life. Oh yeah I felt like crap, but I was NOT going to miss the rest of this dinner.

What followed:

cream of mushroom soup with truffle oil

buckwheat crepe with smoked salmon and creme fraiche

lemon & vodka sorbet

roasted chicken
(I took a nap during the chicken course. It was okay because this is when the French people started singing and by the time I woke up from my nap they were still singing and my chicken was still waiting for me.)

wild boar cooked in wine with celery root puree
(This course was amazing! I still dream about it. While I was eating it I happened to glance at my watch and it was 1:30 am. This was some serious eating.)

roquefort cheese tart with carmelized pear and salad

Phew. No one had room for the chocolate mousse. Then our friend Freddo arrived, fresh from his shift at Fleur de Lys, carrying a cake in the shape of a log. I laughed at the log. (I've since learned that this is a traditional French Christmas cake, ooops).

It didn't really matter that I'd just spent 5 hours eating the largest dinner my life. When Hubert Keller sends a free cake your way, you eat it. So I ate it. I don't know how.

Jason & I were up all night. We ate nothing the next day. But we will always have fond memories of our first meaty Christmas. And foie gras? Well, wait til I tell you about our trip to Paris...

VGML

I have a confession to make. Okay, no, I have two confessions to make.

1. I have been on 22 flights in the last two months. Yep, I have a carbon footprint so big that I could stamp out the sun. (Hey, what do I care? I don't have kids!)

2. I love airline food. Honestly. I love airline food in the same way that I loved TV dinners when I was a kid. Do you remember TV dinners? The kind that came in a foil tray, that got cooked in the real oven? Sure, they were always disgusting, but there was something so exciting about peeling back the foil to reveal what secrets lie beneath. What will it be? Will it be cooked all the way through or frozen in the middle? What is the dessert? Can I really eat Salisbury steak without puking? It was the element of surprise, combined with the challenge of eating something so disgusting, topped off with a warm dessert, all in a neat compact tray. I get the same thrill every time I fly.

Well, not every time. If you've been on a domestic US flight lately, you know that they don't give you food anymore. But on international flights (which are sometimes shorter than domestic ones) and in the rest of the world, they still give you food. Hey, at least it gives you something to pass the time.

Now despite the fact that I've been eating meat for over a year now, this was really the first big trip where I was out of the closet as a carnivore. Oh, sure, I nibbled a few bits of chicken last year in Thailand (and suffered food poinsoning from it) but until now, I've stuck to the veggie meal.

Let me tell you, getting rid of the veggie meal has made traveling a dream. For those of you who have never suffered through an airline veggie meal, let me share my pain of flights past.

It goes like this:
You book a flight, and at some point, on the phone or online, you opt for a special meal. The airline will present you with a dizzying array of special meals. Lacto-ovo vegetarian, vegan, low fat, low sodium, kosher, bland, halal ...

You choose lacto-ovo. That sounds safe.

As soon as you reach 30,000 feet, a flight attendant will come up and confirm that you have ordered a special meal. You feel special.

A few minutes later, she will return and plop your meal in front of you. Of course, meal service has not begun for the rest of the cabin, so you are getting jealous stares from all the other passengers. You have no drink.

Your meal is covered in foil and is labeld VGML. It has your name on it. Awww. You peel back the foil to reveal a veg mess. It's usually something like eggplant with mung beans and green beans and a little bit of tomato sauce over rice. It's the sort of thing I would expect to be served by those Food Not Bombs kids. Off to the side, is a half-frozen whole wheat roll with corn-oil margarine. A rotting salad with fat-free Italian dressing, with the texture of phlegm. A graham cracker. And a little dish of underipe melon with grapes.

Ummm, okay. Well, the veg mess is warm at least and the plane is freezing, so you eat.

Right around then, food service begins for everyone else. "Chicken or veggie lasagne?" they're asking. Veggie lasagne!!! Hey, wait. I could have eaten that! Why can't I have the veggie lasagne??? (Don't bother asking, they will tell you they don't have enough to go around. After all, you ordered the veggie meal.)

Soon your seatmates will have their meal. You stare (payback). They have veggie lasagne. And the same wilted salad, only they have full-fat ranch dressing! And instead of a graham cracker, they have real crackers, with a packet of real cheese. And instead of fruit, they have carrot cake. And a normal roll, with real butter. What gives? Didn't you order the lacto-ovo veg meal? Why couldn't you have these decadent delights??

My theory is that that lacto-ovo meal, the vegan meal, the bland meal, the low fat meal and the low sodium meal are ALL THE SAME THING. They just put a different sticker on it to make you feel special. BASTARDS.

Anyway, I can now tell you that flying without the dreaded VGML is like having a weight lifted off your shoulders. You don't even really have to eat any meat. And once you leave the American-owned airlines, the food improves dramatically. (Seriously, some of the best food I had in India was on a 1-hour Jet Airways flight....more on that later.)

I'm baaaccck!

Oh dear, poor, neglected blog. I am so sorry for having abandoned you. You see, I have been traveling since October, and I don't have a laptop. No, really.

I've been traveling for work. I've been traveling for fun. Don't believe me? I'll tell you. Since October, I have been to Washington DC, Tunisia, Barcelona, Paris (twice), Florence, Rome, Naples, Sorrento, Palermo, Nice, Las Vegas and India.

But good news, I have consumed more meat in the last two months than I probably have in the whole of my life. I've eaten ducks. I've eaten goats. I've eaten wild boars and milk-fed baby lambs. Truly, I have a story to tell about meat in all its glory. So please, don't give up on me, blog.

Fernet Branca, the carnivore's best friend

The night of our first real meat binge in Buenos Aires was a sleepless one.

Maybe meat is always like this, or maybe it was just my body in shock, but the meat sat like a rock in my stomach for hours. It was a very unpleasant feeling that I've become accustomed to lately. Meat makes you feel full. Those Atkins people have been telling us that for years. What I didn't realize is how long it takes to digest. Hours and hours.

And yet, it tastes so good that I'm willing to put up with a few hours of discomfort afterward. That's where Fernet comes in.

If you don't live in San Francisco (or Italy), maybe you haven't heard of it. It's a digestif. Some say that it tastes like Jaegermeister without the sugar. I don't really agree. But people seem to either really love or really hate this stuff. Thankfully I am in the former camp, because it works a magic on the digestive system that pharmaceutical companies could only dream of emulating.

Fernet is painfully trendy in San Francisco. Bartenders drink it. It is a drink for those in the know. Whatever. I like how it tastes (like licorice mixed with Underberg topped with a Ricola garnish) and it cuts through a pile of meat in your gut like nobody's business. A shot or two of Fernet, and you can get up and walk again.

I only hope that it becomes trendy in more places. I have tried to order it recently in Boston, Chicago, Washington, DC and Florida. What I got were puzzled looks from bartenders instead. Sambuca makes a poor substitute. As does congnac. (But they'll do in a pinch.)

Consider this a public service announcement. If you eat copious amounts of meat and can stand the taste of herby-licoricey alcohol, do yourself a favor and get your local bar to carry at least a bottle or two of Fernet Branca.

Meat Taboos & Thit Cho

I remember watching David Letterman one night years ago, probably when I was still in college. Julia Child was on the show and she was doing a cooking demonstration. She was hacking away at a duck.

She squawked, "You know, this method also works very well with baby seal."

Letterman nearly choked. "Baby seal? Jeez, Julia, what are you, some kind of monster?"

"What's the difference between a duck and seal?" she asked, still hacking away at the duck.

Fair point. What is the difference between a duck and seal? Or a dog and pig? Or a horse and a cow? Why do people think squirrels are cute but they run screaming from rats? Why is it okay to eat rabbit but not cat? Where do we get this stuff from?

And yet, most people don't seem to think about this much at all. Maybe I spend too much time thinking about it. Maybe I'm the one with the problem, not everyone else.

A few years ago, in our pre-carnivore days, my husband & I went to Vietnam. Now I had heard that they eat dogs in Vietnam. I prepared myself for this. I memorized the word for it (thit cho) so I could make sure we didn't accidentally wander into a dog restaurant. After human, probably no meat strikes more fear in the hearts of Americans that the thought of eating dog meat.

Anyway, although I wasn't surprised to find dog meat served in Vietnam, I was surprised to see that many Vietnamese people also keep dogs as pets. And I'm not talking about some scruffy guard dog chained to someone's fence. I mean floofy little dogs with shiny pink collars and little sweaters. That kind of pet.

So I was curious as to how people rectify that. How do you spend the day snuggling with your pet dog, and be okay with the fact that there's a thit cho joint just down the road? I was lucky to meet up with a Vietnamese colleague and after a couple of beers, we asked her.

"Easy," she explained. "See that dog? That's an eating dog."

And that was it. The wild-looking dogs with the pointy ears are for eating, and the others are for dressing up in little sweaters and cuddling with. Simple.

I guess meat taboos don't have to make sense. Everyone has their own. So if I'm okay with eating pig but not rabbit, alligator but not turtle, well, I guess I shouldn't lose sleep trying to justify it.


Note: I should mention here, before you go hiding Fido from your Vietnamese neighbors, that while dog is eaten in Vietnam, not all Vietnamese people eat dog. And it's not an everyday dish. It's expensive, and it is for special occasions. No one is ever going to serve you dog in place of another meat, give it to you by accident or roast your dog for the neighborhood block party.

Memphis Minnie's

"Ohmyfuckingod"

Jason had just tasted his first bbq rib.

"Is it good, honey?"

"Fuck!

"Yeah, mine's good too."

Jason was buried in his plate. He looked euphoric. I thought his eyes were going to roll into the back of his head. I felt the same way. We had a new drug, and its name was pork.

Ordering had been quite an ordeal. Behind us was a group of Japanese tourists, clutching a guidebook. I don't know which of us was more confused by the menu.

"Ummm, we're new to this meat-eating thing. What kind of animal is brisket? What's the difference between a rib tip and a tri tip? Is smoked pork the same thing as pulled pork?"

We were totally clueless. It felt weird. Exciting. Exotic. Like being in a foreign country. I'd been on this stretch of Lower Haight a thousand times, and I don't think I ever even noticed that Memphis Minnie's was there.

The food was fantastic. I don't know if it was really fantastic, or just fantastic for a guy who had never had bbq in his whole life and his wife who hadn't had it in about 20 years. I think it was really fantastic, because we've been back a few times since.

The ribs are our favorite. And the brisket. The greens aren't as good as the ones I make (they're too vinegary) but we don't go there for the vegetables. The smoked pork is great too, but it's chopped, not pulled. All in all, it's the best bbq you are going to find in San Francisco; the staff take this food seriously and seem to love what they do.

While we were eating there that first night, I was struck by how happy and enthusiastic the other patrons of the restaurant were. Everyone was chatting, passing bottles of hot sauce back and forth.

"Have you guys tried this one? It's amazing!"

There was a comaradarie among these carnivores, a conviviality that I had never experienced at say, Herbivore. Meat eaters are just more laid back, it seems. A little less concerned about what people think of them. They welcomed us into the fold.

Afterward we went to Molotov's for a shot of Fernet, to help us digest all that flesh. They had Reagan Youth on the jukebox. I played the whole album. Reagan Youth and bbq ribs all in one night! I felt like I was 17 again, and it was good.

Memphis Minnie's BBQ
576 Haight St. @ Fillmore
http://www.memphisminnies.com/

Secret Meatings

We did it. We broke the New Rules. We at meat, at home, in San Francisco. Well, now that we were going to burn in vegetarian hell, we might as well have fun with it.

I don't know about Jason, but I kinda always imagined that SOMEDAY I would eat meat again. I imagined myself as an old woman, eating loads of meat and having three-martini lunches. I kept little mental notes about what I'd like to eat if I did eat meat. I would think things like "If I ever eat meat again, I'm going to try that taco truck." Or "If I ever eat meat again, I'm going to fly to Philadelphia and get a cheesesteak."

So, as far as I was concerned, someday was here. Time to indulge our meat fantasies. But while we fessed up to our friends about tasting meat in Argentina, we were not ready to "out" ourselves as full-time carnivores just yet. Instead, we started having secret meat dates.

I think we really had two important things to accomplish:

1) Eat meat memories from our childhoods

2) Try all the meat things that we never even knew existed back when we ate meat...like bahn mi and tacos al pastor.

My mom was a South Philly Italian, and I grew up in multi-culti south Florida, so I had lots of meat memories that I wanted to catch up on - hoagies, macaroni with pork gravy, escarole soup with chicken broth, Jamaican meat patties, matzoh ball soup, Cuban picadillo, salami and more salami ...

Jason grew up in Ireland in the 70's & 80's, so his meat memories weren't quite as warm and fuzzy as mine. Although he wanted to eat some lamb (something I'd never had), pretty much all of it was new to him.

So, for our first official secret meat date, I took Jason for his first taste of real southern bbq.

The Downward Spiral, Part 3

So I know what you're thinking, yeah yeah, you had some beef in Argentina and you never looked back. You caved and started eating the hot dogs you bought for the dog.

No, that's not what happened. We returned to our normal life and our normal diet Rules. It was fine. For about a year.

Then sometime in the middle of 2006, I decided that we needed to try Korean food. We are enthusiastic San Francisco restaurant-goers, and we've tried just about every ethnic cuisine we can get our hands on. But for some reason, we never tried Korean. I guess we just thought it was all meat. But I'd read a review of New Korea House in Japantown and it talked about tofu soup and oyster pancakes, so we figured it would be a good place to try, with enough things we could eat.

We weren't prepared for the assault on our senses when we walked in. The smell of grilling meat nearly knocks you over from the minute you cross the threshold. And it smelled good.

We sat down and looked at the menu. We decided on a spicy crab soup and bbq shrimp. The waiter came to take our order.

Waiter: "Minimum two orders to bbq at the table."


Me: "Oh, sorry, we didn't realize. What should we do honey? Two orders of shrimp? There's nothing else here we can eat."

Jason: "Let's get the beef."

Me: "What? Really? Are you serious?"

Jason: "It looks really good. Everyone else is eating it."

The poor waiter stood there, while we hashed out our ethical crisis. He wasn't amused.

Jason: "We'll have the beef too."

Me: "You're eating it. Not me."

Okay, now you know what happened next. The beef came to the table, and it wasn't scary at all. It was fabulous. It was marinated and slightly sweet, and sliced very thin. We grilled it at the table and ate it with all the lovely kimchi and banchan that came with it. The shrimp were good too. And the spicy crab soup was sinus-clearingly delicious.

The meat had a weird effect on us. We were giddy. We drank beer and grilled meat, and all around us people were drinking beer and grilling meat and it was fun.

We started rationalizing again. Okay, this was bad. This is not organic meat. Who knows what kind of meat this is? But we're in Japantown. At a Korean restaurant. That's almost like traveling. That's almost like the New Rules.

We felt like little kids. Little kids with a secret.

New Korea House
1620 Post @ Buchanan

The Downward Spiral, Part 2

So Jason & I boarded our plane in Argentina,with our dirty little secret and a pound or so of beef lodged in our large intestines. What would we do when we got home to San Francisco? It was all so deliciously forbidden. Would we tell our friends? Would the lure of meat be too strong?

Surprisingly, no, it wasn't. After coming home, the whole meat-binge adventure seemed more like a dream. We eventually fessed up to our friends - the carnivores congratulated us, and the veggies just shook their heads. But back in our old veggie-friendly surroundings, it was easy to fall right back into our old way of eating. We started eating by the Rules again.

But something more subtle was happening to us, and I blame the dog. About six months before we went to Argentina, we adopted the world's most adorable mutt puppy from SF Animal Care & Control. We named her Stella, like the beer.

Getting a puppy was a huge step that impacted so many parts of our lifestyle. We had a little life in our hands now. We crate trained, we went to puppy classes, we raced home from work to walk her, and suddenly, we had meat in our refrigerator.

Trying to be the best puppy parents we could be, we shelled out for Natural Balance dog food. If you are unfamiliar with this stuff, it looks like a big salami. Mmmmm, salami. You have to store it in the refrigerator, and you have to cut it up yourself. With a knife.

At first, I was completely disgusted. The dog food had its own shelf in the fridge. I had a special knife for the dog food. I had a special cutting board for the dog food which I covered with paper towels, just for good measure, so the meat wouldn't touch any of our food. I wiped up the crumbs with a special sponge. Besides the Natural Balance, we bought other meat products, on the advice of the dog trainers. Hot dogs. Ewww. Hot dogs in our fridge. I hope none of our friends come over and see them in there and think we're eating them.

But after a year or so, I became desensitized to the meat. It started sitting on the shelf with the rest of our food. The special knife was forgotton. I even used our forks to scoop out the canned stuff. It just wasn't disgusting anymore. It was a fact of life. And I guess in some way, this helped to eliminate the 'yuck' factor when I eventually did make the transition from semi-veggie to full-on meat eater.

Is it ironic that I am blaming an animal for making me a carnivore? I don't know. But I do know that Stella is really really happy when we cook bacon.

Regrets, I've had a few

New rules - we'll eat meat while traveling if it is part of the cultural experience.

But, oh, the things we've already missed. We tasted no pho in Hanoi, no ham in Madrid, no jerk chicken in Jamaica, and no mole in Oaxaca. Here I am, the most food-obsessed person I know and I have missed out on all of these great things. And the worst regret of all? Japan.

You would think that a pescatarian would do alright in Japan. You'd be wrong. The Japanese like to sneak meat into even the most vegetarian-looking foods. So we probably should have known better before we set off looking for what the guidebook called the oldest-best-most revered ramen noodle shop in Tokyo.

Suffice it to say that Tokyo is not an easy city to navigate if you are a lost westerner with zero knowlege of Japanese and only a minimal guidebook map. We set off at noon, to have lunch at the famous ramen shop. After about 2 hours, we were starving and ordered some noodles from a street vendor to tide us over. A few more hours passed, and we were still wandering - lost - in the general neighborhood of the ramen shop. We're fighting. Our feet hurt. We're cold. But we are not giving up. We have spent so much time and we are so close, we have to find this place.

We find a bar instead. We drink beer and feel better. They offer us some little snacks. No, thank you. We are looking for ramen.

Off we go. It's now dark. Lunch has turned into dinner. We have been circling the same neighborhood for over FIVE hours now looking for the noodles. Finally a kind stranger takes pity on us and leads us by the hand to the shop which, I'm sorry Lonely Planet, NO ONE could possibly find with the crappy map you provided.

Ha. We're here. We've settled in. Food at last. What's that? Oh, it's all pork broth?

We left.

LEFT!!! What the hell was wrong with us?

The Downward Spiral, Part 1

So, there I was, happily vegetarian-with-fish for 16 years. And then in 2005, the hubby and I went to Argentina.

It seemed like a good idea. I mean, I know they are famous for their beef, but they are famous for their cheap wine too. And they have Italian food. Gnocchi. I love gnocchi! I could eat a lot of gnocchi for sure.

Well, no, as it turns out, I can't. I can tell you from somone who has tried, gnocchi gets really tiring after about 3 days. And if you ever find yourself in Buenos Aires, do not - repeat DO NOT - order fish.

Enter my mother-in-law. She had always wanted to see BA and asked if she could meet up with us there. Had we been on our own, I'm sure Jason & I would have made it through the vacation, fueling up on $3 bottles of Malbec and occasionally choking down another plate of gnocchi. But there we were, sitting across from Breda, while she oohed and aaahhhhed over the fantastic quality of Argentinian beef, cooked over an open fire.

This continued on, night after night, until finally Jason gave in. "Give me a bite of that," he said.

I shot him a look, "Are you sure?"

"Yep"

"You're sure you're sure?"

"mmmmmmmmmmmmmm"

So, I did it too. I was nervous. I took a bite of the steak. I tried to shoo the words 'cow corpse' out of my head. It was okay. I didn't feel sick, like I thought I might. Mostly I thought , "I don't really miss this."

But it continued this way for the rest of the vacation. A bite here, a few bites there. Jason ordering his own steak and me grabbing half of it off his plate.

And why not? Here we were in Argentina. How could we go to Argentina and not try the beef? It's not like it was USDA horrible inhumae feedlot beef. This was grass-fed. Happy cows come from Argentina. And you know what? They are already dead. It's not like that cow's going to come back to life if I don't order the steak.

So we made a new pact - we'll eat meat when we are traveling. No meat at home. No horrible American hormone-laden antibiotic-injected beef. But if we happen to find ourselves in a new place, and eating meat just happens to be part of the overall cultural experience, well then so be it, we will eat the meat. (Now what other famous meat places can we visit?)

At the airport, waiting for our flight home, I ordered a salami sandwich. God, I used to love salami and it's really the only meat I ever craved. So, I snarfed down my last bit of meat before returning to American soil, where the rules would kick back in. Then I ordered another salami sandwich, just because I could. The second one wasn't as good as the first. I felt kinda sick.

I'd post a photo here of us eating steak in Argentina, but there aren't any. Like French aristocrats covering their heads to hide the shame of devouring the adorable ortolan, we made sure not to take any photographic evidence of our fall from grace.

Pesky-tarians

Ah yes, pescatarians - the bastard step-child of the vegetarian world. I can already hear all the 'real' vegetarians out there groaning, because there is no one they love to hate more than the I'm-vegetarian-but-I-eat-fish set. I get it. I know that fish is not a vegetable. But let me take a moment to defend the pescatarians.

First of all, pescatarian is a really terrible word. It's ugly, and outside of veggie/foodie circles, not everyone knows what it means. So, as a pescatarian, you often have to default to calling yourself vegetarian. It's just easier. If you are going to a wedding or you're traveling in a foreign country or going to someone's house for dinner, you can just say you are vegetarian and you get to have something to eat that won't have bacon in it. Simple.

Second, I believe, as most pescatarians do, that there are higher and lower life forms. If I remember correctly from 5th grade biology class, it goes something like this ... algae-plants-mollusks-crustaceans-fish-reptiles-birds-mammals. I do not for a moment believe that a clam is anywhere near the equivalent of a dog/cow/pig/human on the life form chain and while I did feel the slightest twinge of guilt the first time I steamed up a batch of live clams for linguine, I got over it really really fast.

Anyway, if I should accidentally refer to myself as 'vegetarian' at some point in this blog, I do apologize to all the real vegetarians out there.

Going Cold Tofurky

All through high school, I flirted with vegetarianism, like a good little punky-goth girl should. Notably for a few months after skipping school to watch 'Faces of Death' with my friends, and then again when I got the Smiths 'Meat is Murder' for Christmas in 1985. I couldn't even listen to the title track.

But it never really stuck, until one day in college, when I was eating a bean and beef combo burrito from Burrito Brothers. That was it... the last piece of cow I would eat until well into my 30's.

What was my motivation for giving up meat? This is a question I had to answer a lot in 17 years. But mostly, it was just the realization that meat eating, for most people in the USA, is totally hypocritical. Sure, I'll eat meat if I can walk into a grocery store and buy a slice neatly wrapped in plastic. Just don't remind me that it ever used to be a living breathing creature not unlike my pet dog. And I thought that was wrong. I still do.

But then I started feeling a bit unhealthy. Oh, and I was craving shrimp. So, I started thinking - If I were left to my own devices, and I were hungry, and there were no supermarkets around, what would I eat? I definitely wouldn't kill a cow, or a pig, or really any mammal. I might kill a chicken because I don't really like birds, but that would still be a stretch. But hell yes, I would kill me some shrimp. I killed cockroaches all the time just for coming in my house and a shrimp is really just an aquatic cockroach, right? And fish, well, they're bigger but still, I could kill one if I had do.

And so, one day in 1989, I became a pescatarian.