Rant Essay #2
Tastes Like Chicken
I don’t eat meat. Well, not really. I mean, I’ll eat turkey and some species of seafood voluntarily, and I’ll eat fish if it’s put in front of me. Chicken used to be in the same category as fish, but then my mother latched onto the misconception that I liked it, and started serving it to me regularly until I put my foot down.
It’s not like I oppose the principle of meat. I don’t think meat is murder. Yes, factory farming is awful and ought to be outlawed, but not all animal products come from such places. Humans are omnivores. Our closest primate relatives are omnivores. I see no logic to the argument that eating other animals is inherently immoral. And as for physical health, meat is great in moderation.
Then why do I avoid it?
Because, my dear readers, I find the taste, smell and texture of most animals to be absolutely disgusting.
Most meat just tastes too much like meat.
Yes, I know. I’m a picky eater. I ought to be grateful for what I have. My parents remind me of this on a weekly basis. I’m also underweight and probably deficient in several important nutrients found in meat, and it is a daily struggle to find a healthful source of protein, since I don’t like many meat-substitutes either.
Why don’t I like fake meat? Because it tastes too much like meat. That’s the point of it.
Despite all that, it wasn’t really the taste that was the final straw when it came to chicken. The flavor of chicken doesn’t have the distinctly meaty quality that I so despise. Not that chicken tastes remotely interesting if it isn’t breaded and fried or made into a broth, because it has to be among the blandest foods on the planet. Much like hardtack, there isn’t much you can do with it to make it palatable, at least in my opinion. And please don’t try to prove me otherwise. I’m very stubborn.
Anyway, there were two events that led up to my current boycott of chicken. Firstly was the time we had chicken thighs for dinner, and, thanks to my Anatomy class, I was able to name all the parts of the femur. This was cool and exciting, but I found afterward that, for some reason, I had lost my appetite.
The second was when we had chicken in pasta (which makes no sense to me: why ruin some perfectly good pasta by sticking meat in it? It ought to be a crime). The first piece I bit into had a blood clot or something of the sort in the middle of it.
Which was beyond gross.
“Are you sure it isn’t a sun-dried tomato?” my mother asked.
Because sun-dried tomatoes are, of course, Pepto-Bismol pink.
“Maybe it was a red pepper flake that got in there,” she suggested.
And how, may I ask, is a solid bit of pepper supposed to penetrate half an inch of equally solid chicken? Osmosis is not applicable to this situation.
“I don’t think you’re fooling her,” my father informed my mother.
So I’m not eating chicken anymore.
Now I have to find some way to avoid eating trout. Because trout tastes like fish, and—drum-roll, please—I don’t really like fish that tastes like fish.
Right, so I’ve written myself in a circle. That probably means it’s time to stop.