I have always wanted to be a vegetarian.
Not one of those rigid, announcing at a dinner party “oh no thank you I don’t eat meat” kind of vegetarian. But someone who quietly takes a big portion of the salad and the roasted asparagus and a large pile of potatoes, and doesn’t say a word. Someone who enjoys the meal without lecturing anyone, judging anyone, making anyone feel guilty.
Forty years ago my husband read an article in the Whole Earth Catalog about how cows take up a huge amount of acreage that should be used for farming, and an average of 20 gallons of clean, potable water a day, and that in the future we would have water shortages, water that could be used to grow food. He finished the article and said, “I’m not eating red meat anymore.” I snapped back, “Good for you. I’ll have a double T-bone.”
The fact is, I have always admired my husband’s love for the planet; respected, admired, and at times have wanted desperately to be like him. But being like him would mean no meat, no airplane flights, recycling 24/7, no air conditioner, watching YouTube videos constantly on the melting of the ice caps, screaming at the TV during the COP27, getting depressed over the IPCC report, monitoring the fires and the hurricanes.
When someone says, “Wow, what a gorgeous warm week we had in the middle of January,” he says, “Not gorgeous, scary.” This summer, when people say, “The ocean is so wonderfully warm this year,” he says, “Not wonderfully warm; it’s terrifying.”
Lots of what he says and thinks about, and the actions he takes, I can almost share … but meat?
The aroma of steak on a grill is Pavlovian. It brings back every great childhood memory. My father, the feeling of wealth, abundance, laughter, Lucky Strikes, my parents dancing in the kitchen, baked Idaho potatoes with gobs of Land O’Lakes butter. It’s summer, and we’re wearing pajamas outside, and we’re allowed to stay up late. The smell of burning grease. It’s nostalgia on a plate.
If we are at someone’s house for dinner, and meat is what they serve, my husband eats it, doesn’t make a fuss, and doesn’t tell people what methane is doing to our environment. But on the way home, he tells me for the 90th time:
He says, “Nance, your precious slab of beef tonight came from one of the 1.6 billion cows on the planet. These babies release about 200 pounds of methane every year. And the effect of these friendly farts on the climate is 23 times more than carbon dioxide. Methane traps the heat from the sun 80 times greater than carbon dioxide. So each cow’s emissions are about the same as burning 260 gallons of gasoline every year.” I’m not listening anymore, because guilt is blocking my ears. But undaunted he continues, “Cows are mostly responsible for 18 percent of damaging greenhouse gases worldwide.”
I sit and silently vow, That’s it. No more steak. The next wedding invitation that arrives where I have to check fish, chicken, or steak, I am going to choose fish. Even though I hate fish, so maybe the chicken. But I know the chicken will be dry.
I’m working on it. I really am.
So if you see me at Red Cat Kitchen glomming a big New York strip, give me a wink and just say, Keep working.
P.S. Here is the irony of ironies: I wrote this before I was diagnosed with alpha-gal. It appears the universe is on my husband’s side. No more meat for me. Or dairy. Or joy. Even marshmallows — my favorite food — are off-limits.
