During one banal dinner of my six-year-old life, I made the connection between the fish sticks on my plate and the fish in the sea. With little fanfare, I claimed my seat in the vegetarian club, a club that remained unnamed and unpopulated as far as I knew. For twenty-three years, not brat nor burger swayed me. And then I got pregnant with Stella. Suddenly, I was lining the fridge with pork chops and eating every meat thing in sight.
Coincidentally, in a matter of months, a whole slew of my veggie friends in San Francisco fell to the power of local, sustainable, dreamy Niman Ranch. Collectively, we went from tofu roasts to dry-rub ribs in no time.
My meat love affair lifted with each bundle of joy I delivered, leaving me back in the land of beans and rice. I just didn't have any interest in meat, and I felt healthy and strong, until all of a sudden this summer, I didn't. Getting rejected at a Red Cross blood drive because of extreme anemia provided a clue to the source of my exhaustion. And the cure was predictable: red meat, leafy greens, cooking in an iron skillet, and supplements. I was tired and desperate enough to willingly embrace them all.
Which is how I found myself cooking a steak for the second time in my adult life the other day. I added it to the rest of the meal I'd prepared, the roasted veggies and rice, which would normally have been the meal. By the time I'd served myself, the girls had already eaten all the meat off their plates and were fighting over the leftovers in the pan. Impressive.
The next day, I took them to the market and we explored some previously ignored turf: the meat aisle.
"Oh, can we get beef jerky? I love it!"
Really?
As we passed by a person offering samples, I asked Stella and Zoey whether they would like to try the meatballs or the chicken.
"Both please!"
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