I’m not a full-fledged vegetarian. But sometimes I get pretty darned close.
I’ve always been squeamish and easily grossed out. So finding something in my ham or steak or chicken that resembles a vein or artery or muscle…
Clunk…
Oh, sorry, I fainted there for a minute. Just let me get some blood rushing back into my head. Deep breaths.
Okay, I’m better now.
As I was saying, anytime my food resembles the animal it once was—well, I just have a problem eating it. If I had lived in pioneering times, I would have died before chopping off a chicken’s head, and then its feet…and…
Clunk…
Sorry. I will now write the rest of this column with my head between my knees to prevent further fainting.
A vegetarian I know once said that if you can’t deal with the fact that it was once an animal, you shouldn’t be eating it anyway.
I disagree. It just shouldn’t look like an animal. If I wanted to be reminded that what I was eating was once alive, I’d just order a head.
“No, waiter, I would not like to try the specials. Just bring a big ole cow head over.”
I buy boneless, skinless chicken breasts because I can’t deal with boning (shudder) or skinning (bleck).
I can’t eat chicken wings either. Why? Because they look like little arms to me. And rotisserie chickens that are in the grocery stores? They look like they’re just spinning around saying “Hey, look I’m dead. And my whole body’s here except for my head and feet. I’m dead.”
While in college, I ordered flounder at a fancy restaurant because I thought the menu said it was filleted. I almost dropped dead when the waitress brought the whole fish–sans head and skin, but tail quite intact—then clanked down a white china plate while saying “This is for the bones.”
Check, please.
As for bones, can’t deal with them either. I’ve never eaten ribs. And legs of anything—chicken, lamb, you name it—can’t even think about it.
For a class in college about persuasive writing, I was given a debate topic—animal rights. I got information from local and national animal rights groups. After viewing photos and reading about the slaughtering process, I ate cheese, vegetables, and pasta for weeks. I decided then and there that there are some things I just don’t need to know about—like what’s in a hot dog. Or—gasp!–scrapple.
One day, a neighbor was frying up some soft crabs. I was out front talking with her husband when I asked what that wonderful smell was. “She’s frying soft crabs. Want to try one?”
Surprisingly enough, I have never eaten a soft crab. I could never imagine eating a sandwich with little legs hanging out on the sides.
But I’ve been open recently to trying new things. I bravely entered my neighbor’s kitchen just in time for her to place a plate of freshly fried soft crabs on the table.
Many of you might be saying “Mmmmm. Yum. Wish I were there.” Well, I wish you were there too because I couldn’t bring myself to pick one up and take a bite. “Just pick off a leg and try it,” I was encouraged. I picked off a back fin, put it in my mouth, and bit down. The breading tasted good. But I just couldn’t get the thought out of my mind that I was eating a leg.
One bite, for me, was more than enough.
The strange thing is that I’ve always been able to eat steamed crabs with no problem. I pull the legs off, gut that sucker, and enjoy the sweet, tender meat.
Perhaps it’s from growing up in Maryland. Or the fact that a crab bit me when I was a kid. Maybe if a chicken attacked me, I’d have no more problem eating wings.
As for vegetables, they come with their own baggage. Years ago, I read about a study in which scientists determined that the sound waves emitted when you pull a carrot out of the ground are similar to a human scream.
Just when I thought it was safe to go with vegetables, I find out that those tomatoes I grew years ago were screaming their brains out when I pulled them off the vine. They and all their little friends were screaming bloody blue murder, when I was just trying to make a BLT.
Like I said before, there are just some things that I don’t need to know. I think I’ll go have a grilled cheese.
Michele “Wojo” Wojciechowski, when she’s not still icing her head after fainting too many times while writing this column, writes “Wojo’s World®” from Baltimore. She’s also the author of the award-winning humor book Next Time I Move, They’ll Carry Me Out in a Box. You can connect with Wojo on Facebook or on Twitter.
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