The Roots of My Vegetable
I've been spoiled at work this week. It's Staff Appreciation and my elementary school (I also work at 2 high schools), has celebrated the week by having theme days and by spoiling the teachers with feast after feast of amazing food.
Geneen Roth, author of "Women Food and God" writes that the way you eat says a lot about you. I often wonder if those who choose salads over the pasta at the buffet table are just trying to project an image of health because they can't actually forgive themselves for eating something delicious in front of other people. I kind of live by the idea that if it's free, anything goes. I guess I spent enough years as a broke student to appreciate the availability of free food; I might as well fill myself up because I'm not sure when my next substantial meal will be. What does that say about me?
I don't always talk about my lifestyle with those I work with. Part of me thinks I'm going to sound like I'm bragging, and it only comes up that I'm vegetarian if I'm offered something with meat in it. At the beginning of the school year, I accidentally ate a hamburger at a luncheon because someone told me it was veggie. I'm still not sure which freaked me out more: the fact that I ate cow, or the fact that I couldn't tell the difference. Either way, I was so upset I made myself sick and had a panic attack. Luckily the guidance counselor came and talked me out of it. My mum did too. "You're still a vegetarian, Katie." I had a sense of humour about the whole thing, and I told the bits and pieces of dead animal in my stomach that I loved it, and that it was in a good place, so I found comfort in that simple acknowledgment.
I suppose now would be a good time to explain my vegetarianism. It's funny, because often times I'll tell the story over a meal because that's when it comes up, and people always stop me because they're eating. So stop eating if you are, here's fair warning. Maybe I'm just so used to telling it that I'm completely desensitized, but you can judge for yourself. Here's the long version:
From a young age, I didn't like meat. I didn't like the taste of it, the chewy consistency and the way it looked. It didn't resemble the other food on my plate, which was usually mashed potatoes and warmed up canned vegetables. At least those were colorful. Meat was always dark, stringy-looking and gross. I'd push it onto the side of my plate, hoping my parents wouldn't notice it because it blended into the knit placemat. I don't know how many times I'd chew and chew and chew then sneakily spit it into my napkin, wad it up and tuck the bundle under my plate. I'd sit at the table for what seemed like hours, repeatedly whining "how many more bites?" like a broken Alvin and the Chipmunks record, which I owned, by the way. Yay to the 80s.
Needless to say I was a picky eater. My parents would trick me into eating fish by telling me it was chicken; not the only parents to do so, I'm sure. We'd have liver from time to time, which I thought was just a disgusting, spongy and discolored piece of food that appeared on my plate. I never considered where it really came from, but I would eat it because again, my parents lied and told me my dance instructor, Catherine, said I should eat it. It was good for me. I was four, and impressionable. I also thought she was the most beautiful woman in the world and would have eaten worms if it would have helped my dance skills.
This reminds me of a great story family members love to tell my boyfriends about, the time I ate earwigs. Once a year in the summer, there's an earwig rush out in the country. My grandfather, a.k.a. Poppa, lived out in St-Andrews, in a beautiful historical house with a big yard. The story goes that I was squishing earwigs on the ceramic patio tiles and eating them. One very significant question has always remained: why. didn't. anybody. stop me? I was two years old! Nonetheless, it happened, and I'm not so embarrassed about it anymore. The story has more than likely been exaggerated over the years. Unfortunately I don't remember anything. Or maybe it's a memory I consciously suppressed. In any case, I will let you know that to this day earwigs gross me out more than any other bug I come across. One time I was sleeping over at my other grandparents' house, in Lachute, and there were earwigs literally crawling through the carpet. It was like a scene out of a childhood nightmare or a campy horror flick. I was in the "blue room" where I usually slept and noticed one on the wall. I got up and found a few more, so I went into the living room and (in my memory) they were all over the carpet and on the floor in the kitchen too. That's the country for you I guess. Have you lost your appetite yet?
That house in Lachute plays an important role in my vegetarianism. I think of it every time I smell a barbecue, and the house was situated on a busy country highway, next to a farm. Beyond the excitement of visiting my grampa and gramma who spoiled me silly, I looked forward to feeding the cows that would sometimes graze near their fence. I'd stand there for the longest time, waiting, patiently, hoping that one of the cows would approach me and eat the long grass from my hand. I'm getting emotional writing this. They were peaceful creatures. Slow, calm, and beautiful to me. Friendly giants. My grampa, a wild story-teller, told of a time when a bull went crazy and hopped the fence and terrorized their property. I always wondered about that bull, and when it would happen again. I think I secretly hoped to be there when it did, just to see it.
The farm the cows belonged to extended around my grandparents' small home, and oftentimes when we'd be watching tv in the living room, we'd see them roaming in the woods behind their house through the large window overlooking the backyard. They're rural, Quebecois elephants, to me. If you know me at all, you know I love elephants. Watching the cows like that was one of my favorite things to do when I visited my grandparents. If they were around, I was aware, and I'd run around the backyard, trying to get a better glimpse of them. When I got older, sometimes I'd climb over the wire fence and walk through those woods and hope to come face-to-face with one of these beautiful animals. I never did, I always kept a safe distance. Part of me wonders if I feared the return of the crazed bull. Bull or no bull, I was lucky to grow up around those cows and to feel so connected to them.
One day, on yet another trip to gramma and grampa's, we came upon some traffic on one the country roads leading to their house. This was unusual as it was summertime and had never happened on the dozens of times we'd taken this road before. Something was up. From the back seat of our red Sable, I could see what was happening a few cars ahead of us. There was a cow in the middle of the road. It looked stunned, and it wasn't moving. It was just standing there. In my twelve year old's memory, I picture people trying to pull at it with ropes. I may be making that up, but I'm not surprised it didn't budge as it must have weighed well over 1000 pounds. Somehow it had escaped from the neighboring field and must have wandered onto the road, only to become frightened by the traffic. Anyhow, up pulls a black pick-up truck on the side of the road and in the back are a few men, one carrying a huge gun. A rifle, I think. The man takes aim at the cow, my heart is racing, he pulls the trigger, the cow collapses. I was scared, but assumed the men had shot a tranquilizer dart, like vets do when they need to help a sick animal, and I thought they were going to bring it to safety. I thought.
Traffic started moving slowly again. I knew we were approaching the cow, and it just so happened to be on the left side of the car, and I had the left window seat. I wanted to see it. I wanted to check on it, make sure it was okay. We were moving at a very slow pace, yet in the blink of an eye, it was in my sights, an image that has been framed in my memory since. Just a few feet away from my window, there it lay. Dead. They had cut its neck, to make it bleed. In the time between slitting its flesh open and our car driving by, blood had pooled all around its head. The cow's tongue was hanging out, lifeless and heavy. Its big eyes, rolled back only to display its dead-whites. I burst into tears, the way you burst when you hear the most devastating news imaginable. I have always been a sensitive being, especially sensitive about animals. And I was especially sensitive that day because I felt like someone had brutally killed one of my friends, in front of my very eyes.
So that's why I'm vegetarian. When we got to my grandparents, I was still in shock, and my parents called the city to report what had happened. I guess things are dealt with differently in the country. Apparently they shot the cow because they couldn't get her into the truck. What I witnessed that day was a complete and utter disregard for animals, and I apologize for the bad pun. I knew from that day on I would never be the same again. Within a year I was completely vegetarian. It was as easy as turning off a switch, only that switch had always been off for me, it's just that my eyes weren't quite open wide enough to notice. Does that make sense?
Writing all this down makes me wonder about fate. Things that are meant to be. It makes me wonder about everything that has led up to this point in my life, and how each experience is connected, and is mutually responsible for making me do exactly what I am doing right now in this very moment. But is each event an isolated moment of destiny? Or is there a bigger arc of significance that exists for me in the future and will that be, "what's meant to be?" I guess it's a lesson about living in the moment. Being grateful for experience and allowing our story to teach us and make us grow as compassionate beings. Had we taken another route that day, how would my life be different? I wouldn't want it any other way. I hate that animals have to suffer because of people, but I'm so thankful that the cow who died that day was a catapult into my raw lifestyle. Or was it the disgusting piece of liver I forced myself to eat?
If you want to make a small change in your life, you can start by appreciating where your food comes from, and maybe say a couple more thank you's the next time you eat. Thank the farmer who grew your vegetables, thank the sun that allowed them to mature, thank the animal that's providing you with food today and while you're at it, thank that animal's mother too. Just be thankful.
Life is a cycle. I want my life cycle to have a positive impact on the world and the people around me. I hope you do too.
Peace and love,
Katie
Geneen Roth, author of "Women Food and God" writes that the way you eat says a lot about you. I often wonder if those who choose salads over the pasta at the buffet table are just trying to project an image of health because they can't actually forgive themselves for eating something delicious in front of other people. I kind of live by the idea that if it's free, anything goes. I guess I spent enough years as a broke student to appreciate the availability of free food; I might as well fill myself up because I'm not sure when my next substantial meal will be. What does that say about me?
I don't always talk about my lifestyle with those I work with. Part of me thinks I'm going to sound like I'm bragging, and it only comes up that I'm vegetarian if I'm offered something with meat in it. At the beginning of the school year, I accidentally ate a hamburger at a luncheon because someone told me it was veggie. I'm still not sure which freaked me out more: the fact that I ate cow, or the fact that I couldn't tell the difference. Either way, I was so upset I made myself sick and had a panic attack. Luckily the guidance counselor came and talked me out of it. My mum did too. "You're still a vegetarian, Katie." I had a sense of humour about the whole thing, and I told the bits and pieces of dead animal in my stomach that I loved it, and that it was in a good place, so I found comfort in that simple acknowledgment.
I suppose now would be a good time to explain my vegetarianism. It's funny, because often times I'll tell the story over a meal because that's when it comes up, and people always stop me because they're eating. So stop eating if you are, here's fair warning. Maybe I'm just so used to telling it that I'm completely desensitized, but you can judge for yourself. Here's the long version:
From a young age, I didn't like meat. I didn't like the taste of it, the chewy consistency and the way it looked. It didn't resemble the other food on my plate, which was usually mashed potatoes and warmed up canned vegetables. At least those were colorful. Meat was always dark, stringy-looking and gross. I'd push it onto the side of my plate, hoping my parents wouldn't notice it because it blended into the knit placemat. I don't know how many times I'd chew and chew and chew then sneakily spit it into my napkin, wad it up and tuck the bundle under my plate. I'd sit at the table for what seemed like hours, repeatedly whining "how many more bites?" like a broken Alvin and the Chipmunks record, which I owned, by the way. Yay to the 80s.
Needless to say I was a picky eater. My parents would trick me into eating fish by telling me it was chicken; not the only parents to do so, I'm sure. We'd have liver from time to time, which I thought was just a disgusting, spongy and discolored piece of food that appeared on my plate. I never considered where it really came from, but I would eat it because again, my parents lied and told me my dance instructor, Catherine, said I should eat it. It was good for me. I was four, and impressionable. I also thought she was the most beautiful woman in the world and would have eaten worms if it would have helped my dance skills.
This reminds me of a great story family members love to tell my boyfriends about, the time I ate earwigs. Once a year in the summer, there's an earwig rush out in the country. My grandfather, a.k.a. Poppa, lived out in St-Andrews, in a beautiful historical house with a big yard. The story goes that I was squishing earwigs on the ceramic patio tiles and eating them. One very significant question has always remained: why. didn't. anybody. stop me? I was two years old! Nonetheless, it happened, and I'm not so embarrassed about it anymore. The story has more than likely been exaggerated over the years. Unfortunately I don't remember anything. Or maybe it's a memory I consciously suppressed. In any case, I will let you know that to this day earwigs gross me out more than any other bug I come across. One time I was sleeping over at my other grandparents' house, in Lachute, and there were earwigs literally crawling through the carpet. It was like a scene out of a childhood nightmare or a campy horror flick. I was in the "blue room" where I usually slept and noticed one on the wall. I got up and found a few more, so I went into the living room and (in my memory) they were all over the carpet and on the floor in the kitchen too. That's the country for you I guess. Have you lost your appetite yet?
That house in Lachute plays an important role in my vegetarianism. I think of it every time I smell a barbecue, and the house was situated on a busy country highway, next to a farm. Beyond the excitement of visiting my grampa and gramma who spoiled me silly, I looked forward to feeding the cows that would sometimes graze near their fence. I'd stand there for the longest time, waiting, patiently, hoping that one of the cows would approach me and eat the long grass from my hand. I'm getting emotional writing this. They were peaceful creatures. Slow, calm, and beautiful to me. Friendly giants. My grampa, a wild story-teller, told of a time when a bull went crazy and hopped the fence and terrorized their property. I always wondered about that bull, and when it would happen again. I think I secretly hoped to be there when it did, just to see it.
The farm the cows belonged to extended around my grandparents' small home, and oftentimes when we'd be watching tv in the living room, we'd see them roaming in the woods behind their house through the large window overlooking the backyard. They're rural, Quebecois elephants, to me. If you know me at all, you know I love elephants. Watching the cows like that was one of my favorite things to do when I visited my grandparents. If they were around, I was aware, and I'd run around the backyard, trying to get a better glimpse of them. When I got older, sometimes I'd climb over the wire fence and walk through those woods and hope to come face-to-face with one of these beautiful animals. I never did, I always kept a safe distance. Part of me wonders if I feared the return of the crazed bull. Bull or no bull, I was lucky to grow up around those cows and to feel so connected to them.
One day, on yet another trip to gramma and grampa's, we came upon some traffic on one the country roads leading to their house. This was unusual as it was summertime and had never happened on the dozens of times we'd taken this road before. Something was up. From the back seat of our red Sable, I could see what was happening a few cars ahead of us. There was a cow in the middle of the road. It looked stunned, and it wasn't moving. It was just standing there. In my twelve year old's memory, I picture people trying to pull at it with ropes. I may be making that up, but I'm not surprised it didn't budge as it must have weighed well over 1000 pounds. Somehow it had escaped from the neighboring field and must have wandered onto the road, only to become frightened by the traffic. Anyhow, up pulls a black pick-up truck on the side of the road and in the back are a few men, one carrying a huge gun. A rifle, I think. The man takes aim at the cow, my heart is racing, he pulls the trigger, the cow collapses. I was scared, but assumed the men had shot a tranquilizer dart, like vets do when they need to help a sick animal, and I thought they were going to bring it to safety. I thought.
Traffic started moving slowly again. I knew we were approaching the cow, and it just so happened to be on the left side of the car, and I had the left window seat. I wanted to see it. I wanted to check on it, make sure it was okay. We were moving at a very slow pace, yet in the blink of an eye, it was in my sights, an image that has been framed in my memory since. Just a few feet away from my window, there it lay. Dead. They had cut its neck, to make it bleed. In the time between slitting its flesh open and our car driving by, blood had pooled all around its head. The cow's tongue was hanging out, lifeless and heavy. Its big eyes, rolled back only to display its dead-whites. I burst into tears, the way you burst when you hear the most devastating news imaginable. I have always been a sensitive being, especially sensitive about animals. And I was especially sensitive that day because I felt like someone had brutally killed one of my friends, in front of my very eyes.
So that's why I'm vegetarian. When we got to my grandparents, I was still in shock, and my parents called the city to report what had happened. I guess things are dealt with differently in the country. Apparently they shot the cow because they couldn't get her into the truck. What I witnessed that day was a complete and utter disregard for animals, and I apologize for the bad pun. I knew from that day on I would never be the same again. Within a year I was completely vegetarian. It was as easy as turning off a switch, only that switch had always been off for me, it's just that my eyes weren't quite open wide enough to notice. Does that make sense?
Writing all this down makes me wonder about fate. Things that are meant to be. It makes me wonder about everything that has led up to this point in my life, and how each experience is connected, and is mutually responsible for making me do exactly what I am doing right now in this very moment. But is each event an isolated moment of destiny? Or is there a bigger arc of significance that exists for me in the future and will that be, "what's meant to be?" I guess it's a lesson about living in the moment. Being grateful for experience and allowing our story to teach us and make us grow as compassionate beings. Had we taken another route that day, how would my life be different? I wouldn't want it any other way. I hate that animals have to suffer because of people, but I'm so thankful that the cow who died that day was a catapult into my raw lifestyle. Or was it the disgusting piece of liver I forced myself to eat?
If you want to make a small change in your life, you can start by appreciating where your food comes from, and maybe say a couple more thank you's the next time you eat. Thank the farmer who grew your vegetables, thank the sun that allowed them to mature, thank the animal that's providing you with food today and while you're at it, thank that animal's mother too. Just be thankful.
Life is a cycle. I want my life cycle to have a positive impact on the world and the people around me. I hope you do too.
Peace and love,
Katie
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