Nothing causes me more discomfort than having the following conversation.
Why do I hope a conversation like this never comes up between you and me? A: After six years, I'm still in denial that I'm a vegetarian. And B: If I think it's strange I don't eat meat, then I just assume you do too.
Plus, this conversation always happens at the worst time. Like when you've made dinner for me and then suddenly learn I'm only going to eat the bread and pickle off the sandwich.
In fact, I keep this fact about me so quiet that my uncle only realized this fall that I don't eat meat. Meanwhile, we've eaten dozens of meals together over the last six years.
Well, that was all I needed to hear. I pushed my kid's basket of shrimp to the middle of the table and was done with popcorn shrimp for the rest of my life.
Secondly, I blame my Grandma Rose (whom I love dearly).
Grandma Rose grew up on a farm and saw how the sausage was made. Literally. Growing up, I ate dinner at my grandparents house almost every Wednesday from first grade until I graduated high school. Every meal included a story from grandma about how that chicken/turkey/bacon/etc came to sit on our plates. Every bloody detail.
Do I wish I ate meat? Sure do. My goodness, I'm from a small farming community in Ohio. My friends and their parents need you to eat meat for their livelihood.
But where you see a perfectly grilled steak, my mind pictures the raw insides of a cow. Where you see BBQ chicken wings, I see the chickens on my grandma's farm frantically running around after losing their heads.
Ok, good. We've made it to the end of this post. Now maybe I will never have the dreaded "Yes, I Don't like Meat" conversation again. Ok, fine. The "Yes, I'm a Vegetarian" conversation.