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Things

mats
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CF Miley
Opinions Editor

 

Many moons ago, I was having trouble jus-
tifying the fact that I ate meat. One day,
after moving away to Victoria to go to uni-
versity, I was discussing the topic with an
idealistic young woman for whom I was har-
' bouring a rather large crush. Being young,
stoned, and laden with excess hormones, I
graciously accepted a book from the lass,
Diet for a New America, by John Robbins.

Now, I’m not going to tell you about
how cows in slaughter houses are dragged
to the killing floor so they can have a metal
pole driven through their skulls before their
carcasses ate chopped, divided, and
stamped Grade A. I’m not going to speak of
chickens that have never grazed, and are
pumped so full of antibiotics and steroids
that they are literally altered on the genetic
level to be almost all breast and legs. I will
not speak of the unspeakable ways in which
humans act towards other life on this planet
in order to supply the neatly wrapped pack-
ages of roast beast and boneless delights for
our Sunday plates.

Instead, ’m going to tell you that I
became a vegetarian, and many meatless
years later I started to crave chicken with an
almost religious zeal. I needed to make
peace with the carnivore in me, and quickly.

I tried to just forget what I knew. It did-
n't work. I came up with vast arguments
about my birthright as a human being, “I
can stand upright,” I postulated, “with the
ability to gaze at the horizon and wonder. I
have opposable thumbs, can use tools, and
have a frontal lobe capable of complex

8 | OUnEPPPESS

thought. I am the product of
evolution getting it on with a
boatload of luck under the
perfect circumstances. I am
at the top of the food chain,
and it’s just too bad for that
which I long to eat,” I said
to myself. I quoted that Kurt
Cobain lyric about it being
okay to eat fish because they
don’t have any feelings, and
tried to use it to justify doing
exactly what I wanted to
them. It still didn’t work, but
the cravings for chicken
continued to grow. I began
to feel as though there was
something in the meat that I
“needed.”

I held out for month after month like an
alcoholic gone dry: one day at a time. I knew
that I was going to buckle eventually, and
decided that I had best come up with some
way to make my peace with what I was
going to do. Then, like a flash of divine
insight, I heard the term that made the lights
come on in my idealistically muddled
mind—hunter/gatherer. “That’s it,” I
thought. “If I’m going to eat them, I should
be able to kill them, pluck them, chop them
up, and cook them myself.”

There was only one problem: I was a
total fucking pussy, and didn’t want to take
the life of another breathing animal. But I
wanted the chicken really bad. The zeal
grew from holy to unholy, and something in
me changed. “Belay that hippy-dippy crap,”
I thought to myself. “I’ve eaten meat many,
many times before, and I’m going to eat it
again.”

I called my friend Michael the Farmer,
explained my mission, and scored an invite
to the next slaughter day out on the farm,
which was two months away. I celebrated
my fine idea with an order of chicken ten-
ders with plum sauce. Next, I ordered a
chicken burger with teriyaki sauce and a
pineapple ring. Hot damn, it was one of the
finest meals I'd ever eaten.

I joyously began to partake of both
chicken and fish, all the while knowing that
the day of my own personal reckoning was
quickly approaching. I managed to find an
excuse to not join Michael that day. He

 

killed the chickens by himself, as he often
had in the past, and I bought a good amount
of free-range chicken from him. I thought
that the mere idea of being able to kill had
freed me to happily consume meat again,
but those nagging doubts crept back into
my consciousness as the initial buzz of eat-
ing meat wore off.

I called Michael once again, and booked
for the next slaughter day with a promise to
appear no matter what. The day came; I
threw on some old clothes, and drove to the
farm. Michael was there, already beside the
barn with a steaming garbage can full of hot
water beside him. He spread some hay on
the ground under a large hook and disap-
peared into the barn. A moment later, he
returned with a chicken under his arm. He
covered the animal’s eyes, bound its feet
together, hung it upside down, and drove a
small blade through the top of its beak and
into its brain. The death was quick, with
very little blood. Michael then let the chick-
en hang for a moment as he explained about
how adrenaline can make the meat tougher,
and that was why he covered the chickens’
eyes and killed them out of sight of the
other chickens. Michael is no softy. He kills
things all the time. He dunked the carcass
into the hot water and plucked it on the
spot.

It was then my turn. I numbly repeated
Michael’s actions right up until it was time to