Friday, April 13, 2012


I've been a vegetarian ever since I moved out after college. My parents did not approve, but once I was cooking and living on my own, there was precious little they could do to keep me from not-buying meat products. I've never enjoyed eating meat--it was really just that simple--and once I was free not to do so, not eating meat seemed as natural as breathing. That being said, I did and still do include fish in my diet--mostly for the sake of other people who are cooking for me (those of you who are appalled at Dutch cooking should just imagine it being done with tofu).

It was a mild craving at first, one that could be sated with a bit of peanut butter or an egg or a quesadilla (technically half a quesadilla). Indeed, a look back at the weeks have shown a steady progression in my food-of-the-moment, starting with peanut butter and evolving into last week's escapade involving lots of cheese. (This, in and of itself, is rather remarkable, since I'm not ordinarily a fan of cheese.) But starting this weekend, not even cheese, with its high protein and fat content, could satisfy that little voice in my head (or stomach). No, that little voice was after blood.

I'd been ignoring the voice for the better part of a week: habit was stronger, and my habits were peanut butter sandwiches and not buying doner kebabs with shoarma (or whatever it is you can order at those places). But when you wake up from a nap with the insatiable urge to find a cow and kill it and rip the flesh from its lowing skeleton...yeah, that's a little harder to ignore.

After a day of being grumpy and cranky as all hell, I finally caved. No, I didn't kill a cow. I bought a chicken salad. And I ate it. And I was happy. And surprisingly--I was full. For someone who's usually managed to be in control of her appetites, it's a bit disconcerting for my appetites to be in control of me.

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