Hate is a strong word. This I’d been taught back when I was a bowl-hair-cutted six year old whose mother thought it made me look more girly if I plopped a bow adorned headband onto my silly ‘do. So, I surprised myself when I proclaimed to my pastry chef friend, who only innocently asked if I wanted to join her for a burger, that I hate meat. I didn’t really mean it. I don’t hate meat. I hate people who leave their empty soda cans under the subway seat and pretend not to notice (remind me to tell you a story about this on a later post) and I hate people who proclaim that they only drink red wine, but have no reason to back up this statement. Why do you only drink red wine? Because you think it makes you sound cool? I don’t even know if I truly hate those things that much.
“Bummer for you dude..’hate meat’..that is sad.”
It is sad! I used to love meat. I’d happily chomp on a steak and the ground lamb meatballs that were the number one most-served entree in my home (apartment) but since approximately the moment I became pregnant, I cannot enjoy meat. I just can’t. No pork, no weird offal, and especially no chicken. I even took a bite of a scallop at the soon to be “deathwatched” Blue Ribbon Izakaya (the food was great; the space is huge, weird, and hokey) only to spit it out into my napkin. Not proper behavior for a serious food person.
So what do I do? Should I have forced myself to ingest the beautifully medium rare medallions that topped the awesome spicy Asian noodle salad Susan Feniger made at the Saveur BBQ? Shall I just accept that I am a pregnant vegetarian? Will I ever enjoy the perfectly seared steak at Wolfgang’s (or Peter Luger, of course) again?