Who you callin' chicken?

Normally I don't feel bad about what I'm eating. I occasionally think about the animals that my food comes from, but I'm a hardcore carnivore, so I usually just push it to the back of my mind. It's easy to do, since I buy all of my food nicely trimmed and ready to go, and it doesn't resemble its source so much as yummy, yummy bacon (or, you know, whatever, but I really have a thing for bacon). Anyway, Max is currently in the kitchen, making arroz con pollo, which requires a whole roasting chicken. I bought the chicken and brought it home, before realizing that this meant he'd have to butcher it. And Max is not a clean cooker. Last time he made chicken I found raw bits on several of the cabinet doors. So I volunteered to do it if he'd show me how.

Max: "Crack the spine."
Me: "What?!?!"

I stared at the chicken. Suddenly, it seemed not so dinner-like. But I took my knife and did the deed, then sat there sadly stroking the raw chicken for a couple minutes and telling it that I was sorry. No, really, and it takes a lot to get me to even touch raw chicken, so I must have felt really bad about it.

Seeing as how there's more to butchering a chicken than splitting it, there was more work to do. Which I did, but the whole time I was thinking that I was going to feel a little bad about eating it later. And talking to it, telling it that I was sorry for such a heartless fate.

The thing is, I'm probably still going to be a carnivore, because for one thing, it's so much easier, and for another, meat tastes good. Max suggested a while ago that we give up pork and red meat, and I sort of agreed, but it was reluctant and we haven't actually done it yet. Mostly because every time that I'm ready to take the plunge, I think about bacon. And burgers. Turkey burgers are a good substitute, but there is no substitute for bacon. And don't even talk about turkey bacon, because it's not the same thing. For one thing, it's not greasy and crispy, which is a prerequisite for a good breakfast meat. But maybe from now on I'll at least tell the bacon that I'm sorry. Small comfort, I'm sure.