Eat the Meat.

My grandfather is a... well, he... he does something with cows.

What I do know is that he usually has one or two in his yard, sometimes including a calf that he dotes on, and subscribes to catalogs from which you can order bull sperm. I also know that periodically my family has a boon on beef. My dad, grandparents, and aunt get ground beef, steaks, roasts, stew meat and bones. Everyone is happy and their freezers are full.

This time, my dad and stepmom ran out of freezer room and offered us as much of whatever kind of beef we wanted. Woot! Free food! ...Right?

Normally, yes. I have to admit, though, that this particular beef squicks me out a bit more than usual.

See, I'm not really a meat-lover. In order to eat meat, I have to actively concentrate on something other than the fact that this used to be alive and have eyeballs and fur and maybe I would have petted it or thought it was adorable and now it's all mashed up into this burger, oh gross I can't eat it. Otherwise what happens is I fill up on whatever vegetable or starch is being served and claim to be full because I'm too disgusted to eat the rest of my entree.

So this, getting meat from a cow that I probably maybe saw hanging out in grandpa's yard, was led out to the pasture to see how well it's walking around or its coloring or how big it's gotten, cooed and blew it kisses... that kind of makes my head explode. Now that cow is grown up and slaughtered and in my freezer.

Sloppy joes, anyone?

Maybe I'll eat it, but it's more likely I'll let Chris do the honors while I fill up on french fries or mashed potatoes and pretend like I'm bursting at the seams.

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