On Raw Meat
The sight of raw meat never bothered me before. It was just a fixture of trips to the grocery store. I admittedly always hated even the idea of touching raw meat, but I loved cooking enough to suffer through the icky wet texture. I would never have dreamed of buying a whole chicken to disassemble though because that was just a bit too much like a real chicken whose refrigerated body tissues I was hacking up.
Since becoming vegan, I’ve become a lot more sensitive to the presence of raw meat. At first it was just the sight or thought of raw chicken that bothered me. Just this week I realized the depths of sensitivity to which I have sunk (or ascended to, if you’re one of those elitist or evangelical vegans). You see, the June issue of Real Simple has a whole article on grilling that involves two full spreads of various raw meats with instructions for how to prepare them. I actually started to retch looking at it, and I had to turn the page quickly. It just felt like I was looking at a morgue.
The moral of the story? Becoming a vegan makes you a total wuss. It’s all true.
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