Earth
Day presentations at high school are fraught with issues; the usual
recommendations are to change your lightbulbs and buy solar panels, with not
much in between. This year, they added “Don’t eat meat.” “Will you tell the whole school why you don’t
eat meat?” they asked. “I don’t think so,” I replied. “It’s not a simple
answer.” After all, it goes back to a rainy college summer….
It
was my last summer at home. I was to be a senior, graduating in June, and no
longer able—or willing—to move back home after graduation. It was not the best
summer. First, everyone else was doing something cool, an internship,
traveling, anything but living with their moms in Hampstead, New Hampshire. I
was lonely. Second, my boyfriend broke up with me via letter as soon as I
unpacked my stuff. Then, it rained every
Monday all summer long; I know, I checked the records. It was damp and cool and
nothing grew. And, I was a meat wrapper.
Meat
wrapping is a job that has gone out of fashion, but, at one time, all beef and
pork arrived in slabs, like a quarter of a cow, to be cut to specifications in
the grocery store. It was the half way point between a real butcher and
pre-packaged meat. If you wanted, say, a thick London Broil, you could ask for
it and the butcher would carve you off a section. They also de-boned chicken
and thin sliced other cuts of meat. It was a good, blue-collar job. Men were
butchers, women meat wrappers. My job was to take the Styrofoam trays of beef,
pork, and chicken, toss a plastic wrap over them, and then price and display
the food. I worked with two men—one
older, one my age—and an older woman. The younger guy was prone to flirting
with young women at the deli counter and saying things like “I have Male
Intermission. I know when it’s time for lunch.” It was a trial. On Monday
mornings, I arrived an hour early, (walking down the road in the rain at six
thirty am), wash out the meat case, and set it up for the week. Honestly, it was a good job. It was within
walking distance of home, paid a little over minimum wage, forty hours a week,
and good working conditions (if you don’t mind being in a 45 degree room all
day) and generous co-workers. However, by the time the summer was over, I was
sick of the sight of meat.
That
fall, I lived by myself in a tiny two room apartment with the bathroom down the
hall. It was cheap. It was cozy. It was on the bus line. My food budget was
fifteen dollars a week. I made my own bread, muffins, and soup, baked beans,
experimented with crepes—and realized that meat was taking a huge chunk out of
my food budget every week. This is crazy, I thought. I don’t even really like
pork chops! Slowly, I cut them out of my diet. Chops, bacon, sausage—no
sacrifice. They went in September. By October, I was no longer buying beef or
chicken. I felt great! And my food money went a lot further, even with an
occasional Dunkin Donuts from the shop down the street.
Worried
about protein, I bought a copy of Diet
for a Small Planet and read about combining beans and grains, dairy and
nuts. I grew more intentional about my meals. I read about the efficiency of a
plant based diet, how it used far fewer resources to eat beans rather than
meat, wheat rather than dairy. I was convinced.
Meat was bad for the planet. I would no longer eat it. My mother was
horrified.
Even
in my most extreme vegetarian days, I was never perfect. I have always eaten
pepperoni pizza—pepperoni is not meat. If I was served meat, I ate it. Now, I feel less determined to be pure. I no
longer like the taste of beef or pork, so they are easy to not consume. I will
eat an occasional piece of chicken or fish, usually when I am very tired and
stressed. I am no longer convinced that grass fed beef, raised humanely and
eaten in small quantities, is a bad thing for the planet. In fact, it might be
good. My partner eats meat—it makes him
feel better. We have, after all, become adults. All things in moderation.
