Food for Thought

Sins of the flesh: so easily excused

A well-known writer wisely observed — and I paraphrase — I don’t know what I think until I write about it.

If Comcast hadn’t quashed my internet connection, I’d be able to credit the author and quote him properly.

That done, I’d quite likely go googling along, playing hide-as-I-seek in that ethereal cloud called Virtually-All-There-Is, desperately ferreting factoids to buy myself respite.

As it is, here I am with no ‘net to cushion my fall.

And so, as I must, I take the unprotected plunge — splat!

Time to pay the piper.

My piper. That voice that pipes up every so often — too often — to tell me it’s time to pay.

To pay heed to what it whispers, insidiously, whenever I enjoy some barbecued ribs, make a tuna melt, eat a chicken Caesar salad.

Whenever I order Teriyaki steak tips. Whenever I cook Thanksgiving dinner.

Whenever I ogle the myriad meats on offer at Stop and Shop, wherein I stand frozen in awe as I gaze at the dead-eyed fish waked on biers of ice: You are just as guilty!

So there. I’ve written it.

It is indeed true that the writing process is often necessary to clarify one’s thoughts. In this case, alas, the piper has long since indelibly imprinted these thoughts — this writing is merely my means of confession.

So there. I should “feel better,” they say, now that I’ve “got it off my chest.”

I don’t, and I haven’t: a. I feel worse, and b. whatever bit of the burden that saw fit to abandon my chest has simply slid south and socked me good in the gut.

You’d think I’d have lost my appetite for meat long since. Even if not, at the very least, I should pay the piper penance by becoming vegetarian.

But to do so would be untenable.

It’s not about missing the meat; I’m no crazed carnivore—I’ll gladly hold the burger and triple the cheese.

No, the reason I won’t become vegetarian is that my doing so would not expiate my “sins of the flesh” — it would merely confirm my having committed them.

And such a burden of guilt is one that I cannot begin to bear.

So, you see, here’s where I begin to back-pedal on my admission.

I cycle frantically in false comfort of circularity. And in that category, the Lamest Excuse Award goes to:

I would never kill an animal.

I eat meat.

Therefore, eating meat isn’t like killing an animal.

And, so, although I happened to have had a bean-and-cheese burrito for lunch, I will be having meatloaf tonight.

I will be dining with three friends at the Atria Assisted-Living Center, as I do every Tuesday, and Tuesday night is meatloaf.

Oh, I could easily get an egg salad or grilled-cheese sandwich instead; substitutions are common — it’s not a big deal for the staff.

But, you see, it would be a big deal for me.

A very big deal indeed. If I declined meat out of “conscience,” I’d have to face the monstrous fact that for all these years, I — and my charming table companions, and the other nice people in the dining room, and all my friends and family — have been complicit in the slaughter of the creatures we so blithely consume.

And so I will eat the meatloaf. Tonight, and every Tuesday night.

We are decent people.

Decent people don’t do evil things.

We eat meat.

Therefore, eating meat isn’t evil.

You can try this neat trick at home. For a nice-and-nasty blast-to-the-past, to those glory days before the South went south, simply substitute “own” for “eat” and “slaves” for “meat.”