9. Going Full Bacon

Re-meeting meat

A few weeks ago, I called my mom on the phone as I was biking home from work. 

“I hear you’ve been eating some more meat,” she said, as I biked over a pothole on Columbia.  

“I have,” I said, as my brakes screamed at the stoplight.

“Are you mostly eating fish?” she asked tentatively, “Or have you gone Full Bacon?”

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I’ve been fully vegetarian since moving to Boston. At first, I made the occasional exception—eating salmon when visiting my parents, a few oysters prepared by my friend’s dad, part of a chicken taquito when I ordered it drunk and it wasn’t specified on the menu—but when I could, I drew a hard line at all animal products past eggs and dairy. 

The choice to stop eating meat was largely driven by my goal to reduce my carbon footprint. And then there were all sorts of ethical considerations; it’s hard to watch Temple Grandin and then go buy a hamburger. It’s even harder to eat an ice cream cone while you’re petting the dairy cows that made that ice cream and feel remotely okay about ever eating steak tips again. Or at least that’s how my dad felt when our family lived by dairy farm/ice creamery Flayvors in Hadley, Massachusetts. He couldn’t bear to look into their big brown eyes and say, “I ate your mother medium rare.” And so our family stopped eating red meat. 

Here’s me, kissing a baby cow at Flayvors four years ago.

Red meat was for other people, but not for us. My parents told me stories about my cousin, who, as a young picky eater, adopted what we affectionately called the “chocolate and bacon diet.” Another cousin on the other side of the family was also a bacon devotee. One Christmas, my mom made him a giant vat of “bacon jam,” and a crock pot of the concoction sat simmering away on the kitchen island until it reached the desired jammy-ness and bacony-ness. Pounds of bacon and maple syrup melded into a mouthwatering smell. Even then, all that bacon was for giving away.

We weren’t meat and potatoes people. We were chicken and vegetables people. 

Once I was living on my own, I stopped eating meat altogether. In retrospect, it wasn’t just about reducing my climate impact or animal cruelty. Being a vegetarian was a socially acceptable, even praiseworthy, way to mask my anorexia. I could disavow an entire category of food. I could easily refuse when something was offered to me because spouting “I’m a vegetarian” would end the conversation. It was my trump card in so many situations, and I regret that I played it recklessly. That was obviously a losing strategy. 

The conventional wisdom that guides a return to intuitive eating is that there should be no restrictions on what one eats. We cannot ascribe moral value to food, so there cannot be foods that are good or bad, allowed or not allowed. And so, at least for now, I’ve ended my moratorium on meat. 

I began by ordering a turkey sandwich. It felt like the most approachable option and while in my heart of hearts I don’t think we should be killing poultry, the meat was made more palatable by one of my mother’s (since debunked) favorite factoids: turkeys are stupid enough to accidentally drown by standing out in the rain with their mouths open.

I walked up to the Darwin’s counter and retrieved my sandwich, all packaged up in butcher paper so I wouldn’t think of the butcher, and then I unwrapped it and found myself with a pile of turkey meat in my hands, separated only by two slices of sourdough. It’s the closest I’ve been to a bird in a while. I bit into the sandwich covertly, feeling like I had to eat it in secret and hoping no one would walk in and expose me (I’ve not forgotten the disapproving office gossip that circulated when a purportedly vegan coworker was caught eating ribs). The sandwich was as delicious as I imagined that coworker’s ribs had been. By which I mean it was very good.

Over several weeks, I progressed to chicken pad thai, tuna melts, shrimp patties, then a smashburger at Curio. I am proud of that progression, but part of what is hard for me about returning to meat is that it feels like a fundamental betrayal of my values and identity. 

I think to myself, “I am a vegetarian” the way I think to myself, “I am a runner.” It’s who I am, and that identity signals all sorts of other things about me: I care about the planet, respect sentient life, am “health-conscious,” whatever the hell that means. As a vegetarian, I identify with all the overlooked vegetable sides of Thanksgiving that are truly the stars of the show: brussels dressed up in their dijon maple glaze Thursday best; spinach gratin layered with parmesan and gruyere; long rainbow carrots roasted to perfection and luxuriating in a bath of butter. That is what an autumnal dinner should be.

But vegetarianism is also an identifier that conjures up more harmful associations for me. I hear “vegetarian” and I think of bodies that are smaller than mine. I think of discipline and abstention. I think of using food as a way to manipulate my size. I think of people who have made me feel guilty for eating meat and people who have praised me for using disordered behaviors. I think of unseasoned tofu. I think of dried beans. I think of being empty. 

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In college I dated a guy who identified as a flexetarian. I was so madly in love with him and his anti-establishment, socialist-scholar, stoner-activist, vegetarian-sometimes vibe. He didn’t cook meat, and he chose vegetarian options when they were available, but if meat was served, he ate it. The entire point of that ethos is being flexible while still upholding your values—somewhere on the path to intuitive eating (which might be somewhere on the path to enlightenment).

That isn’t where I am right now. I’m still experimenting with going Full Bacon, walking over to Broadsheet on a Sunday and ordering their weekend bacon, egg, and cheese on cornbread. I’m still in the phase of giving myself permission to eat meat. I’m still trying to avoid having other people see me eat it, and judge me. I’m still identifying as a vegetarian, and because that identity is also rooted in values that are not disordered, it’s painful to give that up. 

Still, there’s something powerful about going full throttle into anything. Be it full recovery, or Full Bacon. At the very least, it isn’t empty.

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A Note

I’m going to be sending these out more regularly. Right now, I’m committing to one every three weeks, hopefully transitioning to every other week very soon. :) 

For now, you can expect an essay in your inbox every third Friday morning. I’ll also include a little doodle for your viewing pleasure. Here’s today’s: