Even before my son read the book Eating Animals I had a hard time making turkeys every Thanksgiving and Christmas. I was completely unconscious and unaware of the factory farming issue. Well actually I was more like an ostrich with my head in the sand because I didn’t WANT to know the truth and have to change my long ingrained habits. We are creatures that cling to the familiar. And yet, I didn’t really LOVE turkey ever. It was usually dry and I don’t think I ever even tasted it with all of the gravy and cranberry sauce and stuffing and mashed potatoes I was cramming in my mouth at a furious rate, as if I was never going to see another meal in my life. The pace of my eating is another story, and has to do with a childhood spent surrounded by older brothers and being fed like lions in a cage. But back to the turkeys. I never questioned why I had to make turkey at Thanksgiving. When I went to the store sometimes I would stand in front of the sheer number of butterballs in the freezer section brought in for the holidays and wonder where they all came from. I didn’t like to think about it for long though because I didn’t grow up on a farm, and being an animal lover, I am squeamish about the truth of my food source.
My husband has teased me for years about my tendency to block out all deductive reasoning when it comes to animals, alive or dead. He cannot fathom how I could completely deny the relation between the chicken breast on my plate to the feathered creature that scampers around squawking and laying eggs (if it is in fact lucky enough to be truly free range, not the FDA approved definition). That is the power of the mind I guess. I have been a master at it for years. I can remember once when my middle daughter was six, she came down to the kitchen smelling something good cooking and asked what was for dinner. I had just pulled lamb chops out of the oven. “Yum,” she said, sliding her finger on top of one and licking the salty juice off of it. “What’s lamb?” she asked. I had learned early on that I could never get away with lying to this one so I said, stupidly, “Baby sheep.” “Ugh!” she spat out furiously, “that’s what I hate about meat!” “What?” I asked tiredly, annoyed at myself for not somehow preventing this conversation. “The eating of animals!” she shouted, storming out of the kitchen. She is a carnivore still, but that was a moment of clarity for her, and me. However I pushed her words to the back of my mind as soon as I was able because the naked truth of them made me uncomfortable.
Over the last few years I have tried to buy fresh organic “free range” turkeys, but it still doesn’t completely erase the subterranean guilt I feel. For years I’ve blamed my holiday depression on unresolved family issues (always an
easy target), but it could also be because I’m eating animals and energetically that creates negative emotion in me. Frankly turkeys usually taste like shit anyway, generally overcooked and unremarkable. The year before last our turkey was raw at Thanksgiving dinner. My brother and his family had come over to our place in Idaho, and whether it was altitude or my sister-in-law’s defective mathematical abilities, the turkey was not cooked through. Between us we had made dozens of turkeys, but it seems like every year there is some catastrophe. Seriously, the only good turkey I ever had was when the same sister-in-law’s Dad deep fried one outside. So unless they’re boiled in oil, not exactly on the heart healthy plan, they don’t taste very good. And yet unbelievably, I have never heeded any of these warning signs. Each November I drag myself shopping, I complain for days about cooking the whole meal by myself, and I pick a fight with my husband, children, or whoever happens to be in my vicinity. Even the dogs give me a wide berth during the holidays, scraps that might fall from my knife are apparently not worth the stress of being around my negativity.
Last Christmas I finally boycotted the turkey. Why should we have to have one twice in a month? Turkey may be culturally attached to Thanksgiving, but just because I grew up eating another at Christmas, didn’t mean I had to continue the tradition. Good thing too because our power went out on Christmas Eve and we didn’t get it back until late afternoon Christmas day. The turkey would have been raw two years in a row. We made spaghetti and meatballs instead. This year poses even greater challenges, since my kid has forced me to face the truth, I now know from whence those butterballs come. We might be having Indian takeout for Thanksgiving. They make good vegetarian food.
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