I eat red meat. Not alot, as I know it's not entirely good for me. But I love hamburgers and I have indulged in some wonderful steaks. And if Mom makes a roast? I'm having second helpings.
PETA would not be pleased with me, and I'm okay with that. I have always said that growing up on a farm has made me appreciate eating beef. Sounds terrible, doesn't it? Too see those cute cows with those big, brown, soulful eyes and then...to eat them? The horror!
I've said it before; I was stampeded by those "gentle souls" and the next time I ate a burger, I remembered the thundering of hooves and the relentless onslaught of fifty 700 pound death machines. I had seconds and ate them with relish (both figuratively and literally...we make homemade relish).
I've been woken at midnight by my mom's knock at my bedroom door and the words, "The cows are out." I've thrown jeans over my pajamas and boots on my feet in the wee hours of the morning to go traipsing over hill and dale searching for the miscreants who plundered through a barb wire fence and scattered over at least fifteen acres of fields. I've fallen in woodchuck holes, slipped on muddy hills, and been spooked by at least one raccoon. I've stood at the top of hills at three in the morning yelling "Ka-boss!" until the cows literally came home.
Filet mignon? Don't mind if I do.