COLUMN: Ever wonder where your dinner comes from? Stop
This morning I saw something so shocking, I almost drove off the road.
And if I told you it was an alien spaceship hovering over my office building, beaming up my boss, you’d probably think I was just joking, or shouldn’t have been driving in that state of mind.
In actuality, I saw a large, shiny blue truck, emblazoned with the perky title, “Earland’s Mobile Butchering.”
I didn’t know they did that.
And by “they” and “that,” I mean the strong-stomached folks who can apparently be called on like pizza delivery to turn Bessie into dinner.
Mooooo!
Growing up in an urban environment, I never spent much time making friends with livestock, and therefore seldom pondered the origins of my dinner.
When I was really young, I couldn’t really discern teaching moments from stupid questions. So if anyone had asked me where hamburgers came from, I would sardonically reply, “McDonald’s, you bozo.”
I didn’t know any better.
We went on a field trip to Mickey D’s in elementary school where we learned all about the wonders of the creation of a Filet-O-Fish. Either they decided to spare us from the truth about burgers, or I got stuck in the special group of “squeamish children.”
In any regard, I’m sure schools these days don’t regularly include a curriculum on meat processing. In fact, they probably should never do that.
Unless you’re a farmer kid, it’s probably better not to overthink your bacon.
So I grew up blissfully unaware of meat details.
Thank goodness.
My older brother, who normally was cruel during our childhood, always tried to torment me by grossing me out. Luckily we never had anything like “the talk.”
No, no, no, not that talk – the “steak talk.”
The kind of talk that makes you think about the history of your meal. The kind of talk that potentially determines the lineage of that juicy, medium-rare entrée sitting on your plate.
“Hey bro, I bet you don’t know where that steak comes from.”
“Duh, outside on the grill that dad’s still cussing at for singeing his eyebrows.”
Dad was never masterful at outdoor cooking.
“No, before that.”
“Um, the fridge.”
Next came the complementary punch in the arm.
“No, before that, stupidhead.”
“Supermaket. Whoa, that’s going to be a big bruise.”
He of course decides to match it on the other arm.
“No, before that”
Long pause.
“Steak trees?”
And thus until this morning, even though I now have a sense of reality, when I think of steaks, I try to remember the good old days of steak trees.
That way I can remain emotionally detached from my meal.
However, the Earland’s meat wagon has decided to stay all day at the neighbor’s property. So, just like a bad traffic accident, I, of course, have to go look.
Luckily, the truck is far enough away, that I can conjure up a second thought at each attempt and come back inside.
Because it’ll probably make me heave, I’ve decided not to gather the guts to have a closer look. I’m better off just envisioning what goes on inside the truck.
And because my imagination is limited, this task yields a simple picture in my mind.
There is a conveyor belt ramp which takes a mooing cow up into the truck. On the other end, an output conveyor belt sends out burgers, with significantly less mooing.
What happens inside is a big black cloud in my imagination. There are of course a lot of strange noises of machinery and muffled yelps, but since there is a giant smiley face over the whole thought bubble, I just don’t care.
This is why I’m not a vegetarian. Plus, I really hate tofu.
I foresee that as I sit down at the table for dinner tonight, I’m going to wish I’d simply seen that spaceship.
Suddenly Brussel sprouts sound unusually delectable.
Mooooo!
Garrett Wheeler is a columnist for the Utah Statesman. Comments can be sent to wheel@cc.usu.edu.