The Lamest Reason for Going Vegetarian

The more I cook for myself, the more I realize I’m going to be a vegetarian one day.

It’s not because I’m some sort of champion of animal rights–though I do love animals and would hate for them to befall any sort of cruelty.

It’s not because I feel like “animals are people too.”

It’s not because I have some sort of ethical opposition to killing things for food.

It’s not that I dislike the taste of cooked meat.

No, it’s raw meat I have issues with.

I hate looking at it, I hate smelling it, and most of all, I hate touching it.  Blegh.

I hate cooking because cooking generally means “cooking with meat.”  

Or, it used to.  Last weekend I made a vegetarian lasagna.  I was convinced it would be terrible–after all, the meat-eating populace would have you believe that all vegetarian food is sub-par to the meaty deliciousness of tradition.

I was pleasantly surprised when my zucchini and mushroom dish was every bit as good as traditional lasagna.  Even more so at the unabashed joy I felt while making it.  I’ve never been so happy cooking before.  And all this just because I didn’t have to handle raw beef.

So I’m pretty sure that I’m going to go (mostly) vegetarian the second I start living on my own.

But I’ll never be able to officially be in the club because my reason for joining up sucks.  I’m pretty sure hardcore vegetarians would think I was a poseur.

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