LIFE ON THE FEEDLOT

We are surrounded by farms. To the west, a thousand-head of cattle merrily graze  on a thousand acres. To the south, a hog confinement graces the horizon. Heading north we find two llamas guarding a herd of sheep. Head east and  you get all of the above plus an Amish farm with over a hundred goats. That, by the way, is a lot of Mason jars full of canned goat meat. Across the English River you’ll see emus racing around their pen. If you go to Sunday dinner at their house, do not ask for the drumstick. So here’s an invitation: come to my neighborhood, climb up on a big platform, pick up a bullhorn, and announce, “I am a vegetarian.”

In truth, I pretty much keep that information to myself. If someone is about to plop a steak on my plate, I mumble something about my vegetarian status. While I consume my fair share of soybeans, farmers around here cannot contain their disgust towards us "meatless whackos."

I can’t imagine demanding that a carnivore explain why she eats meat, but vegetarians are grilled, broiled, and ridiculed, sometimes by people we hardly know. It’s open season, as though I am going to the bank and personally withdrawing everything from their farm accounts. Mothers put their children behind their legs as though I'm going to force a  rutabaga on them. Go to the Volunteer Fireman's fund-raising breakfast, and before you can speak, they throw bacon, sausage, and ham on top of your pancake. A three-meat breakfast is an expectation.

I don’t push my food beliefs on others. I’m not always greeted with the same consideration. When they ask me why I don’t eat meat––and they always do––I say I won’t eat an animal if I wouldn’t kill it myself. I don’t go into gory details about why I wouldn’t kill it or why I won't let someone else do my dirty work. That's because they have already moved away from me shaking their heads.

The farmer who owned the nomadic herd (see entry for March 7) came over for dinner one evening. When he finished eating about 3 pounds of sloppy joes, he looked up at me and said, “Thought you didn’t eat meat.” 

“I don’t,” I said.

“What’s this then?”

“That’s soy protein.”

“Is not,” he said. Then he emptied the bowl of Mrs. Miller's Sloppy Joes, vegetarian style, onto his plate.

Just beyond his place, at the end of our road, is a very nice woman who farms alone. She grows crops and tends cows come rain, shine, or miserable blizzard. She’s frisky, strong, and warm-hearted. One weekend she called and invited us to come for dinner on Saturday night. She’d invited all the neighbors. “We’re having turkey, gravy, and potatoes. If you want vegetables, bring your own.” I figured I could do without them for one meal. Besides, she makes the best cherry pie in Iowa.

I will never live here long enough to understand the country paradox. A farmer will fight to save a lamb during a difficult birth. He'll spend the night freeing a heifer trapped in a washout on Old Man’s Creek. Then, he'll turn around and slit the animal's throat.

Your Easter Ham?

Still, I won’t make an issue out of killing animals, not until I go home and change out of my new leather shoes.