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.