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.