meat and me
Jidori chicken feet.
I come from a long line of Presbyterian missionaries who spent time in West Africa, India and Thailand. If you're thinking The Poisonwood Bible
This may be why I never really learned guilt. Not like my Catholic or Jewish friends anyway, whose mothers -- it is usually their mothers -- seemingly heaped on the guilt daily, like the big spoonfuls of sugar I used to dump in my morning cornflakes. It probably sounds strange to those who grew up with a fully-developed sense of guilt, but I almost never feel guilty.
Except that lately I feel guilty every time I eat meat.
Let me first say straight out that I am not a vegetarian and do not think there is anything fundamentally wrong with eating another living creature, although I have no problem with those who choose to forgo meat and/or animal products entirely. What I do find fundamentally wrong is the entire intensive meat farming industry, the CAFOs (Concentrated Animal Feeding Operations), the "high stocking densities," the antibiotics and growth hormones, the rows and rows of animals living and dying in misery, so that we can buy our boneless, skinless, tasteless chicken breasts for 99 cents a pound. It's not right. And I don't feel right eating it.
It's hard to not feel helpless, confronted with statistics that sketch out the sprawling, stinking behemoth that is the factory farming industry. But I've reached the point where I can't look at a piece of intensively farmed meat without visions of sad cows and suicidal pigs dancing through my head, so no matter how ineffectual it feels, I've decided to only eat sustainably farmed meat from now on.
This means only grass-fed beef, lamb, bison and goat, pastured chicken and duck and humanely raised pork. It also means a lot more research and work when I go shopping. Part of the problem is that the language surrounding meat and its origins is purposely vague, misleading and often meaningless. "Natural" means only that the meat is free of artificial colors and preservatives. "Organic" means the animal ate a completely organic diet, was not given hormones or antibiotics and was allowed access to the outdoors, but this could mean just a small door leading to a tiny concrete yard. Unfortunately, there is no guarantee the life of an organic chicken was any less horrific than that of its conventional cousin.
So I am turning to farmers markets, where shopping for humanely-raised meat is cheaper than Whole Foods and much more rewarding: I can actually look the farmer in the eye and ask him how his animals lived and died. The number of meat vendors at LA-area farmers markets is miniscule compared to the number of produce vendors, but seems to be growing steadily. I can personally recommend the pastured (jidori) chicken from Ana's Farm at the Alhambra Farmers Market and the grass-fed beef from J&J at the Atwater Village Farmers Market (and other markets throughout the week).
The one caveat? I am making an exception for special ethnic restaurants, simply because I am a weak, food-obsessed person who cannot live without soup dumplings from Din Tai Fung, boat noodles from Sapp and fried chicken from Kyochon. They are only occasional indulgences, so I don't feel guilty about the decision.
...Okay, maybe just a little. But my overwhelming feeling is relief. I am no longer hiding behind passivity and the mantra "What I don't know can't hurt me!" As I finish off the last of a small roast chicken -- small because it grew at a normal pace, without a freakishly large breast -- I am not swallowing guilt, shame or fear. Only chicken, really good chicken.
Some inspiration (and more thorough, eloquent thoughts on the meat industry):
