O: 9/25/02

Work Diary, 9/25/02

If they stopped to think about it, people who have eaten lobster or
crab could probably describe the word "barbaric" in intimate terms.
While I've ordered both in restaurants, I've cooked a whole lobster
only once. We'd bought a special pan, boiled the water, took the rubber
band off the lobster's big claw, and dropped it in to be boiled alive.
My partner immediately placed the lid on the pan and we stepped
back?

?only to watch in disgust as the lid began shaking and rattling, one
red claw grasping for a hold. This lasted for several seconds, securing
my belief that true horror is timeless and eternal.

Though we do eat meat, my partner and I were once vegetarian. That
practice carries over into our kitchen, where we rarely bring beef or
pork. I like to buy those packages of chicken breasts, however, which
are great for so many recipes, and my guilt typically disappears by the
time I've cut up the first breast and given the Beagle her fair share.
Besides, chickens are filthy, stupid beasts. If one really could talk
to the animals, a chicken's sinister clucks would undoubtedly translate
to: "Mine! Mine! Feed me now or suffer the consequences! Get him!"
Chickens suffer from a form of entitlement unparalleled in the human
world. In bird society, chickens live in those government high rises
where syringes litter the playground and every door has three
deadbolts.

Except for a lobster fighting for its life, other seafood passes the
guilt test, too. Shrimp are just plump - if expensive - spiders;
freshwater fish might as well scream, "Eat me!" Saltwater fish,
however, are a different ballgame; they seem to have an intelligent
gleam in their wary eyes. As I wouldn't (and couldn't) clean a fish on
my own, I typically miss that come-hither look on their faces.

My partner discovered that an octopus might have the intelligence of a
three-year old human child, thus ending our consumption of that sushi
delicacy. I won't eat veal, if only because at a hotel restaurant in
the ninth-grade, I lifted the breading on my cutlet and discovered the
poor calf's fine, silky hairs still intact. I avoid most sausage, which
may as well be a three-year old's colon.

Food is an individual thing. My youngest sister, who wouldn't dream of
eating a tomato, will happily suck away on roasted duck feet at Dim
Sum. Mushrooms on pizza make me want to hurl expletives at passerby,
but I love the mushroom soup my partner makes. Chili reduces my
born-and-bred Texan aunt to tears.

Of course, we have the luxury of being picky eaters, and what a luxury
it is. I've eaten countless dinners with my family, and I can assure
you that if food were scarce, the pickings would be breaded,
deep-fried, and downed with gusto. But to be able to pass over certain
dishes, to ignore a grumbling stomach because food is a quick car trip
away?it's all so easy, particularly when some doe-eyed creature has
been sliced, diced, and pre-packaged for easy viewing.