It first happened while Christmas shopping in Georgetown, when the only thing on the lunch menu at Clyde’s that held even remote appeal to me was the turkey club. A few weeks later, a shipment of barbecue came in the mail (this happens when married to a Texan) and for the first time in the history of such a package arriving, that brisket looked delectable. Throw in a few lunch meetings where the thought of plucking one of the marinated vegetable wraps from the catering tray made me want to gag yet the pesto chicken panini might as well have had an “eat me” tag attached to it.
This was all unusual because I hadn’t eaten meat since 1994. And there’s a reason that last sentence said “hadn’t.”
I’m a carnivore again. Not exactly a regular at Charlie Palmer’s or anything but I’m slowly working in some turkey and a little chicken or pork here and there. Chalk it up to selfishness. And spare me your “yeah, food-chain selfishness” lectures, ye hippies in the readership. Personal preservation selfishness. I quickly discovered that I loathed prenatal vitamins. They did unholy things to my delicate-like-a-flower system. Specifically, they made me so nauseated that I found myself stumbling around and gnashing my teeth while shriek-praying the rosary with alarming frequency. It was freaking out my husband, the neighbors, and whoever was on the Metro with me at the time. My doctor, benevolent soul that she is, gave me a dispensation: learn to re-love God’s tastiest creatures or pop the pills. If nothing else underscores for you how awful prenatal vitamins can be, let it be that I am choosing to put a dead turkey in my trap rather than a pill. But you know who’s calmed down considerably? The bambino(a).
It seems that Homer Simpson was right. You don’t win baby friends with salad.