On Eating Animals by Jonathan Safran Foer
Tuesday, November 24th, 2009
There’s much to think about after reading Jonathan Safran Foer’s excellent new book, Eating Animals. More than a work of advocacy, it reads as an honest exploration into the dilemma of eating meat that the author promises from the very beginning. We’re left to weigh the new knowledge we’ve gained against the knowledge we kind of knew was already there. Perhaps I should say “I” instead of “we.” You see, I know where Foer is coming from. I may not have a child, but since my college days, my relationship to eating meat has been alternately tenuous and voracious, but never indifferent. There was always a part of me a little unsure as to whether or not I should be thinking about the meat I was eating. If the part about “should be thinking about” sounds convoluted, well it is. Again, never indifferent. I went a full year in my 20s not eating meat at all. And it wasn’t that hard, especially if you continue to eat fish or animal products like eggs, milk and cheese. Since that time, I’ve sometimes avoided it and sometimes sought it out – quests for perfect BBQ in the south can turn into ritual. As someone who enjoys cooking, I’ve breaded it, grilled it, marinated it and served it up. I eventually found a position I considerable agreeable: “conscientious omnivore.” For the most part, when dining out and I had an option, I chose a non-meat, or sometimes fish option. I avoided fast food restaurants all together. At home, rarely meat, sometimes fish, mostly neither. When dining at the homes of family or friends, I ate what was offered.
After reading Eating Animals, I’m not sure that this position is agreeable anymore.
Foer gracefully points out, though, that eating isn’t simply about what you put in your mouth. Eating is about family and culture. It’s about the smells of childhood, and memories of family dinners. While steak was a rarity in my house growing up, my mother’s meatballs were the best (and I see fellow Italian-American men nodding in agreement about their own mother’s meatballs). I used to help my father roll small meatballs to toss into his escarole and bean soup. Now that I think about it, my mother’s meatloaf was ostensibly one very large brick-shaped meatball. And I remember once when my grandfather – perplexed that I wanted a hamburger – made a very large meatball and smashed it into a paddy. “THIS, is how you make a hamburger!” he said. He was right. It was the greatest hamburger I had ever eaten, and a favorite story I’ve told dozens of times. But we didn’t just eat variations of meatballs, of course. My mother would often bread chicken or pork cutlets, or throw some pork or sausage in with the sauce (or gravy if you’re from the Northeast).
As someone who now carries on the Italian-American cooking traditions I learned as a kid, I’m grateful that deciding to become a vegetarian would be easier than if I came from a different tradition. But it would still be difficult. Eggplant dishes, broccoli rabe, stuffed mushrooms, any number of pasta dishes, etc. are not a problem. Switching to vegetable broth for tortellini soup wouldn’t be a big change, but what to do about the pancetta, or bacon, in my beloved – and admittedly famous – pasta e fagiole? And if there’s any meat I do get a craving for, it’s the cold sliced kind that I spent my teen years piling up on sandwiches when I worked at the deli in my neighborhood. I love my prosciutto, and mortadella, and capicola and sopressata. As far as animal products go, my mozzarella, and ricotta and provolone. This stuff is more than meat or animal products; they are my connection to my father and grandfather; to my ancestry.
So is there a middle ground? Does knowing the sopressata I’m eating comes from a pig that was not factory farmed make it less objectionable to me? I don’t know for sure, but maybe a little. What’s impossible to know is if it did indeed NOT come from a factory farm. Odds are, especially if you’re eating poultry, then pork, then beef, that it did. Are you a betting man?
What I do know, is that Eating Animals has raised the conversation to a new level for me. It’s a conversation that started almost 20 years ago, was put on the backburner, and in recent years, brought up again with the watching of “Food, Inc. and the reading of The Omnivore’s Dilemma. Foer is the first one to add to the discussion the aspects of culture and family, and in section 4 of the “Storytelling” chapter, turn that discussion into poetry. The middle of the book is heavy, and that’s what makes it extraordinary. He sets it up beautifully, tells you where he’s going to go with it, and then takes you out eloquently. The writing alone in the last section is worth the barrage of facts and horror that come at you through the middle.
I’ve written before in blog posts about the risks one takes when entering a movie theatre, going to a concert or opening up a book. There’s a chance you’ll see something, or experience something or read something that may alter you in small way, challenge your way of thinking, even change everything. I’ve always liked that. When opening Eating Animals, you know what you’re getting into it – none of what Foer writes should surprise you – but you’re not sure how it’s going to affect you. To put yourself in that vulnerable position is a good thing. Most people, I imagine, don’t want to, especially when it comes to the subject of eating meat. That alone says something.
But if anything, just imagine, as Foer writes, “what kind of world would we create if three times a day we activated our compassion and reason as we sat down to eat…”
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When I’m asked about my music, I sometimes give people one or more of my CDs, hope they’ll listen to them all, and then come up with a complete sense of what I do. But I know that’s not practical. Sometimes as an introduction, too much music can backfire. Lately, via Facebook, I’ve reconnected with many people I grew up with or went to school with who didn’t know I was a musician. They’ve asked about my music, and again, I find myself either mailing out some discs, or recommending one or another on iTunes. So I’ve come up with a solution. Why not send them a “Best Of?” Or a least a collection of what the majority of listeners think are the best? Again, as I mentioned, the songs I think are my best, and what listeners think are the best are not necessarily the same thing. Some of what’s been most popular (”Beautiful Woman”) and what hasn’t (”Haven’t Seen Myself,” Joywood version) I even find perplexing. But perhaps this is proof that while we’re our own worst enemy — “My Biggest Enemy,” by the way, is popular — and harshest critic, we’re often not the most objective assessor of our talents (whatever that means).
