I could be described as gastronomically unscrupulous. I flirt shamelessly with vegetarianism and go so far as to imply that we’re “getting serious,” slipping anecdotes of our adventures into conversation almost too readily. I publicly rave about nutrient rich veggies and shudder when I describe the hormone laden beef and chicken of my sordid past. I over-optimistically load up on kale and chickpeas and quinoa. I suspect we have a real future together.
But a trip home for the weekend or a visit from a friend and I find myself in a steakhouse with sexy lighting and a martini on my right, and words like “protein”, “iron”, “Atkins”, “evolution” and “omnivore” are playing on repeat.
“New York Strip, rare. Yeah, rare. Thanks”
Slut.
When I walk into my apartment, my cans of beans are dutifully standing guard and my tomatoes gleam at me innocently, and I feel a little guilty. I probably don’t deserve them, loose woman that I am. And maybe we were moving too fast; I picked up a box of Boca Burgers in the grocery store the other day. Hormones, antibiotics, slaughterhouses, The Jungle… I still don’t want to be the kind of person who eats that shit. I wouldn’t let such an exhilarating affaire complacently slide into suburban ennui.
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