The first bite of pepperoni pizza after two and a half years was sublime. The nerves in my tongue were so unused to the meaty umami flavor that my eyes watered as much as my mouth did. It wasn’t even a quality pizza; it was some industrial kitchen Sysco slice, but it was amazing!

I became a vegetarian in the late-Fall of 1990. Jenn Goetz and I decided that the moral and environmental ethics of eating meat were too huge to ignore, and we supported each other through the initial transition struggles. This was rapidly tested since the two of us had already signed up to cook and host the annual Thanksgiving dinner at the Newman House (Catholic Student Center). The first bird I cooked was the first bird I didn’t get to eat. I’m sure there was a period of difficulty, but I don’t really remember them. I do remember learning to cook vegetarian lasagna from the Moosewood Cookbook. 

I was a content vegetarian for the next few years until I took the job at the outdoor learning center in Maryland. We weren’t well paid, but they had a cook, which mean I lost control of my own menu. If this guy had been a decent cook it might have been okay, but this dude was NOT a good cook. Imagine the burger chef from “You Can’t Do That on Television” who always got cigarette ash in burgers, and you’ve got it. It was like eating slime, especially since we few vegetarians lived off of the side dishes. And peanut butter. My will slowly crumbled.

Additionally, my moral relationship to the meat was changing. Part of the place was a working farm, and we helped care for and feed the pigs, sheep, and cattle. Much of the meat served was from those animals (or the relatives of those first animals I fed, I suppose). The anonymous industriality of the meat was reduced to the more direct “I feed you – You feed me” except I was the broken link. I actually came to feel I was missing out on something meaningful. I don’t know if I agree with past Kevin on that, but I still feel comfortable with his choice as appropriate to that moment in his life.

For better or worse, that slice of pepperoni was the first step back to joining the mainstream of American society. I can take it or leave meat. I’m lazy enough that I won’t go out of my way to avoid meat, and in semi-rural Texas, it’s easier to eat it than not. 

Year later, Michele and I went to Chicago to meet Marsha‘s Brian for the first time, and we all went to Gibson’s steakhouse. Honestly most beef tastes the same to me: I like a good hamburger as much as good brisket as much as a good steak.  It’s all fine. A “great” steak is wasted on me, the way great wine or great jazz is. I believe you think there’s a difference, but I can’t sense it.  Michele, on the other hand, is a connoisseur of beef. She makes faces and noises while eating steak…I will just let that sentence trail off…suggestively.

So while Marsha and Kevin did their “haven’t talked in X number of years” routine, the introverts Brian and Michele worshiped at the temple of quality meat. Late in dinner, and mid conversation, Michele literally interrupted whatever I was saying to Marsha to ask “are you gonna finish that?“ then proceeded to fork stab what was on my plate onto her plate and kept going. It was glorious! A defining moment of charm in our relationship and probably still the most assertive thing I have ever seen her do.