![]() ![]() Every so often I’d overheard a passing remark about how “you don’t want to know how meat is processed”, but I brushed it off– it couldn’t be wrong to eat meat, clearly it was no big deal. Perhaps reminiscent of scenes from Little House on the Prairie. ![]() When I pictured the lives of the cows, chickens, pigs, or whatever that lived before they made it onto my plate, I had a vague notion of an idyllic farm, with pastures, green grass, and of course, the inevitable slaughter– but quick and humane, a necessary evil. Gross to think about, sure, but, I thought, it’s only natural to eat animals. I always knew, as did the rest of my family, and anyone else who eats meat, that what we were putting in our mouths were pieces of dead animal. Of course, there were times as a kid when I asked my parents about whether it was “mean” to “eat a dead cow,” but this was usually shut down with “don’t talk about that at the dinner table.” Or, the day I announced around age 9 that I didn’t want to eat the chicken my mother made for dinner because I thought it was wrong, “well, good luck making your own dinner.” You said your prayers before you went to sleep, you raised your hand in school, and you ate that turkey sandwich for lunch. For most of my life, eating meat was the most normal thing in the world. ![]()
0 Comments
Leave a Reply. |