Tuesday, 17 April 2018

Confessions of a Meat Eater



We had a lovely piece of roast lamb in our house over the weekend. It was tender, delicious and of course made all the more appetising because there were no members of the snowflake generation around to spoil the occasion with their questions about the sustainability of the meal, its provenance and whether or not we really ought to be enjoying it with a nice glass of red since this would, according to the latest made up study, shorten our lives by six months.

For those of you of the millennial generation, you might wish to retreat to a designated safe space right now because there follows a micro aggression. I cooked the meal in question. It involved my handling the meat. It felt cold and clammy on account of it being dead, but I managed this with fortitude even though I had to smear said meat with the delicious garlic and herb rub I had prepared by taking the innocent plants and blending them into a paste in a manner that took no heed at all of the plants' feelings. I find this all terribly therapeutic by the way, which probably makes me a monster.

There was a report at the weekend informing us that supermarkets are now identifying a growth market for selling meat to millennials. They package said meat in packets meaning that the snowflakes don't actually have to handle the meat because they find it all a bit icky. And so the supermarkets have made the process easier for them by putting the meat in lots of unnecessary plastic packaging just to protect the delicate sensibilities of people who claim to care about the planet. Odd that don't you think?


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