I’m a closeted vegetarian, which for someone who grew up in Argentina eating good-quality beef on a regular basis is…well, unusual.
But over the last few years I’ve grown more conscious about animal welfare and have had the luxury of being more selective about the food I eat. The other day I was chopping a big hunk of beef for a stew and realized, with a pang of horror, that I was cutting a piece of an animal that had been dead for days, and had probably had a miserable life. The thought grossed me out and made me feel guilty.
Call it what you will—weakness, grandiosity, granola-crunchiness. It made me uncomfortable. So I decided to try being vegetarian for a week. The experience went well. I felt pretty self-righteous, even when I accidentally ordered a BLT and only remembered I was supposed to be vegetarian after finishing the meal and realizing how good bacon tasted. Continue reading