I might need to be a vegetarian for a little while...

I have a box of Bubba Burgers in my freezer, and since finishing the chapter "The Ethics of Eating Animals" in The Omnivore's Dilemma, I can't even make eye contact with the box. In fact, I've reorganized my freezer so there are bowls of frozen soup and a gallon of ice cream blocking my view of the burgers.

We no longer have any rituals governing either the slaughter or eating of animals, which perhaps explains why we find ourselves in this dilemma, in a place where we feel our only choice is either to look away or give up meat. (Pollan 331-32)

I've never really thought particularly long and hard about what I eat. (I mean, I put thought into whether to have lasagna or pancakes for dinner, not necessarily where it came from and how it arrived on my pantry shelves.) Apart from this book, only two other instances come to mind. . .

When I was younger, I don't even remember how old I was, probably in fourth or fifth grade, we were at my grandparents' for a holiday. They all blend together, especially when there are 40 or 50 people crammed into a house, but it was likely Easter or Christmas. For our family gatherings, the food was always spread out on the countertops and we filled our plates buffet-style. I had been standing in line with my cousins, irritated that we were being pulled up from our basement ping-pong game for dinner. When I finally reached the food, I saw before me at least three different kinds of meat. I wasn't surprised that it all looked like chicken, but earlier in the day, I had overheard my uncles talking to my grandpa about how the rabbits he'd killed and cooked up for dinner. So now I stood in front of unidentifiable meats, not knowing which was the chicken, the turkey, or the rabbit (who could possibly be the brother, sister, mother or father of my own pet rabbit, Cuddles, who was likely asleep in his cage at home, safe from Grandpa's butcher knife). I yelled for my uncles and asked what I was supposed to eat. They teased me and told me they couldn't tell which plate held the rabbit. I threw a fit and refused to eat anything but green bean casserole and mashed potatoes, certain those were safe foods. I just couldn't fathom eating a buddy of Cuddles, and didn't understand why Grandpa thought it was okay to eat them. Maybe it was because I had never seen a chicken or turkey in person, so they weren't on my radar as being animals. I can happily report that I grew wiser and began observing in the kitchen so I could always tell which was the turkey, and would never have to go through that kind of ordeal again.

Supersize Me. Need I say more? I can count on two hands the number of times I've been to McDonald's since watching that movie, and every time I go, I am so disappointed in myself; I can't even eat an entire bag of value fries anymore. That said, if anyone ever attempts that at Chick-Fil-A, I don't think I'll be able to go on living. I like to pretend it's not as bad as Mickey D's. Please don't burst my bubble, friends.

So, for now, I'm quitting bacon cheeseburgers. Thanksgiving is around the corner so I can't promise no turkey, but I'm certain I'll be feeling a little guilty as I eat the yummy little bird.