We went out with the family last night to a steakhouse for GB’s birthday dinner. GB loves him some steak, and it’s fine with me for a bunch of reasons:
- I’ve been vegetarian since I was 13, so I’m used to finding things to eat anywhere;
- I’ve recently been eating fowl and fish (though I’m thinking about cutting the fowl back out), though in both cases they have to be disguised to not look like what they were;
- I’ve never been the kind of vegetarian who cares what other people eat…to me, it’s a choice I’ve made based on what I want to put into my body and the kind of impact I want to have on the world (environmentally, karmically, whatever);
- When both GB and GB’s grandpa put on suit jackets (and, in GB’s case, an entire suit) for dinner, you know they’re excited about it…and what kind of heartless bastard could take issue with that kind of Dinner Glee?
I ordered the chicken, which was fine except that it was a little too…chickeny (i.e., not breaded, fried, and nugget-shaped), so I ate my potato and salad and complimentary pineapple sherbet, had a couple bites of my chicken, and asked for a to-go box.
There was a lot of steak leftover, too, so we got another styrofoam box and crammed an enormous amount of meat into it.* I picked up the boxes as we left, and held them on my lap for the drive home.
On the way home we passed a field of cows, and–instinctively, impulsively, and awash with guilt–for a split second, I moved my arms to hide the steak box from the cows.
*Um. That’s what she said? Or he said.** Thank god I can’t check my keyword stats anymore (damn you, WordPress!), so I’ll never know what kind of crowd that sentence is attracting.
** Warning: audio file! SFW, but still.