Last night I had me some meaty delight. Or was it meaty guilt? I’m afraid it was a bit of both. I don’t eat a lot of red meat, but when I do, boy do I relish the mouthfuls. It almost puzzles me – even shocks me – as I masticate and “mmmmm” my way through the flesh of another creature, that I, who am normally so full of empathy for all living things, can, and seek to, enjoy eating meat as much as I do.
Let it just be said I “only” enjoy it once a week or less; does this make me less of an offender, your honor?
So, about last night. I cut into the best part of the prime rib we cooked for dinner on the BBQ; the tip part that has the most marbleization – that’s just fancy talk for fat – then found a suitably sized piece of roasted potato to go with it on my fork, and then, finally, a small chunk of caramelized garlic. I put this divine trio in my mouth and I didn’t even try to hold back my moan. I actually moaned.
I’m not the kind of gal who saves the best for last. In fact, I usually eat the best part first, with the idea that perhaps I will be satiated before the food on my plate is gone, and then, at least, if I should die of a heart attack mid-meal, I will have enjoyed the good stuff while I was able to.
I think this loosely translates to a theory of how one can choose to live life. My dad was big on this one. “Let’s enjoy each other while we have us,” he used to say, always acknowledging the relativity of it all.
Of course, I never seem to the heed the “satiated” feeling, that little voice in your head that says “you can and should stop eating now, because even though you don’t actually feel it yet, you are full,” so I end up eating everything on my plate anyway, and then some. Perhaps that’s where the guilt comes in.
Well, as I write these words a fisherman glides by in his canoe on the lake in front of my cabin, his fishing pole bobbing off to the side, the line gently and gracefully skimming the water’s surface.
Perhaps I should try catching me some fish for dinner, even though fish have feelings too.