Jonathan Safran Foer’s new(ish) book is stalking me like a starving carnivore on high alert. It keeps finding me wherever I’m hiding – three times in as many days, in fact.

It’s called Eating Animals and apparently it describes how meat gets to the table in a manner so excruciating, it’s torture to read on, or to stop. (I’m quoting you liberally here, Jody.)

I don’t know if I can handle ingesting this book, or live with myself if I don’t. Meat is my big ugly holdout. I mean, here I am, blabbing about how processed veggie ground round is when – come on. Those soy beans are living the life of Hornby Island hippies on peyote compared to the source of my excellent chicken wings or the bacon on my layoff club.

Is meat-eating the most sublimated expression of my alpha self, or my death wish, or a tasty way of connecting with the aggression that seven years of ballet lessons curbed quite nicely, thank you very much? Whenever I salivate for beef stew, part of me wonders.

Have you heard about this book? Are you going to read it? My heart is racing at the thought of asking you to dare me to.

I still might not.

To be continued. (Most likely internally.)

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