28043877
I am not a vegetarian. Actually, what I am is a guilty meat eater. I have never been able to overcome my carnivorous upbringing.
My family ate meat about six times a week. My American-born mother kept meatless Fridays, but other than an occasional night when we had corn fritters, it was meat and lots of it, baby. She piled my plate high with steak, roast beef, beef stew, ham, pork chops and veal cutlet. On Sundays, our pasta was not complete unless it was accompanied by meatballs, sausage and bracciole. That’s not counting an occasional foray into liver and onions or tripe.
When I identify myself today as a “guilty” meat eater, it is only partially for health reasons. Like my father, I have an inherent love for animals. He never associated tearing into a hunk of veal bonsette with killing an animal. I used to enjoy going to the butcher shop with Mom and seeing those bloody husks hanging on hooks. As far as I knew, those husks had never lived to nibble on a blade of grass. But today, I can no longer claim such ignorance, so I mangia with guilt.
The prevailing joke in our house was the famous place that served steak sandwiches really served horsemeat. Mom, who cooked and served all kinds of meat, turned up her nose at the thought that anyone would eat it. Here we are 60 years later and find out Italy is the biggest consumer of horsemeat in Europe. Mom would have been shocked.
A ban on the production of horsemeat for human consumption in the U.S. lapsed in 2011. The Obama Administration is for reinstating the ban, so I figure the Republicans must be for serving horsemeat in the House cafeteria. In order for horsemeat to be legally consumed here, it must be inspected by the USDA, and the latest news is the Department of Agriculture may approve a horse-slaughtering plant in Roswell, N.M. Yes, it is that Roswell, alleged crash site of an alien space craft in the ’50s. There is a message in there somewhere, but frankly, I haven’t figured it out.
Some upscale local chefs have quickly gotten on board with the idea of putting horsemeat on their menu. The idea is if you are claiming to serve authentic Italian food and authentic Italians dine on horsemeat, why not put it on the menu? My Sicilian grandfather on my father’s side often dined on the head of a lamb.
Mom’s reaction was that Sicilians will eat anything. She couldn’t get enough scorn in her voice when she said it. Mom was of proud Neapolitan descent. She would do anything for Dad, but would never serve him the head of a lamb. I got the feeling, though Dad would have denied it, that he was just as happy she wouldn’t serve it. I can just hear Grandpop in a Hannibal Lecter voice saying, “I’ll have that head served with fava beans and a fine Chianti.” But back to the idea of serving Man O’ War’s distant cousin on a plate.
A well-known local chef charged those of us too squeamish to eat horsemeat with moral confusion of sorts. If we can eat other animals, he said, why not horse? This is a guy who charges $155 a person for his tasting menu, so I can probably give him 155 reasons why I wouldn’t want filet of Secretariat as one of the courses. But he is right, of course, about the moral confusion of folks like me, who are not vegetarians, but who turn their nose up at eating horsemeat. My moral compass wobbles all over the place when it comes to choosing what meat I will and won’t eat, and I am the first to tell you that my logic is not logical at all.
I can sum up my personal code when it comes to eating animals, I try not to eat anything cuter than me. Since beauty is in the eye of the beholder, this gives me great latitude. Using the “cute” factor as my guide, this allows me to eat Steak Diane (although I prefer, for reasons of gender respect, that my steak not to be named after any female), but to pass on rabbit pot pie (out of respect for Peter Rabbit and his secular role during this Easter season).
But even here, I have failed. I have eaten rabbit, but at least not around Easter. I have eaten frogs’ legs and mourned for frog amputees that fill our pet hospitals. I am reminded by films such as “Babe” that pigs are cute, yet I relish my roast pork sandwich with provolone and long hots. However when I slip on occasion, I try to make a larger donation to the Humane Society (PETA scares me) as my version of a good act of contrition. I claim no moral superiority.
Will I be tempted to try horsemeat, perhaps in a pastry puff (Seabiscuit Wellington)? On one side, I hear those who say that horses are slaughtered anyway. On the other side, I recognize that I can no longer pretend that horses are noble if I savor them smothered with melted provolone.
If only Mom had raised me on quinoa and goji berries, life would be so much easier.
Contact the South Philly Review at editor@southphillyre view.com.
28043877
