Weakness of the Flesh

Upton Sinclair made me a vegetarian when I was 15. Or, more specifically, that terrible scene in The Jungle did. The socialist content went completely over my head but the thought of people-meat being mixed in with my sausage products was too much for me to handle. I went down to dinner that night, looked at the freshly carved chicken on the counter and announced, “I think I’m not going to eat meat anymore” to which my father called from the next room over, “There’s peanut butter in the cabinet.”

That carried on for a few years until one particularly grueling day in Disney World when I ordered a taco salad sans beef and was presented with a taco salad WITH beef. I knew it would take longer to get a fresh one than it would to wait for a gun license in New Hampshire (around 20 minutes) (which was unacceptable in my famished state) so I sat down with the intention of pushing the offensive substance to the side and consuming the slightly tainted lettuce beneath. Several minutes later, I came up for air with my face covered in delicious beef and then proceeded to sample a meat product at each country in Epcot. Now I own that shirt made famous by Heather Armstrong that says “Meat is Murder. Tasty, Tasty Murder.”

Still, I have a soft spot for animals. I cut six-pack rings before recycling to save the dolphins. I incessantly try to rescue lost dogs. I cry during those horrific animal abuse commercials with the Sarah McLachlan music in the background. So, when Beau told me that Father’s Day dinner would involve fresh lobsters, I may have panicked a little.

When it came time to cook them, I remained in the kitchen. For solidarity. Like how William Wallace’s friends came to his execution. The little troopers emerged from their refrigerated bag, kicking and futilely flailing their bound fists of fury. They continued struggling until they were lulled into a false sense of security with back pets though I’m quite sure I heard one of them whisper, “No. It will numb my wits, and I must have them all. For if I'm senseless or if I wail, then Longshanks will have broken me.” Just before being lowered into the Pot of Death, one of them looked me directly in the eye and I was forced to run into the next room. They died gracefully without the alleged screams I had been led to expect.

At dinner I choked down the steak that Beau’s mother had thoughtfully made for me in lieu of lobster, all the while thinking, “I will courteously eat this animal carcass and then I will remain steadfastly vegetarian for the foreseeable future.” I spent the rest of the evening in bed, nauseated by what I had seen.

Come morning, I woke late and had a bowl of soggy cereal, stewing in my self righteousness at the breakfast table. Because I was determined to carry on the Good Fight for which my comrades had so valiantly perished. I would not let those martyrs be forgotten by the barbarians who slew them for their savory innards. Oh no. I WOULD NOT LET THEM GO QUIETLY INTO THE NIGHT. WHO’S WITH ME?!

Then Beau’s family showed me the two crisp, succulent strips of bacon that they had saved specifically for me. As it turns out, the foreseeable future is less than 18 hours.