My meatless streak officially ended late Friday night. By the time the potatoes had roasted and the meat had cooked, it was well past 10:30 pm, which arguably wasn't the greatest time to re-introduce our bodies to something they hadn't ingested in over a decade. Oh, well. With the help of some digestive enzyme tablets and a hearty dose of courage, the deed was done. (Enter anticlimax.)
I'll admit I was visibly shaken before, during, and immediately after I had put the tiniest of pieces of ham into my mouth, chewed, and swallowed. My mind was reeling, and my long-standing issues with various food textures reared their ugly heads again. The next afternoon, though, I tried again. This time around, I dipped into the culture of my ancestors, and prepared the leftover ham with perogies and fried onions and mushrooms. (God bless Ukraine!) It was much better, and I didn't feel so nasty afterward. And now... perhaps I will be what they call a flexitarian? (One of those made-up states of being, like metrosexual.) I don't know. We'll see.
Even though the decision to try meat again was well thought out and pre-meditated by both Marty and I, it will still take me a while to renegotiate my feelings on the whole meat-eating issue and to feel like I am comfortable with this 'half-and-half' business on my own terms. I've caught myself a number of times almost apologizing for eating meat again to some of the people I know, and I'm definitely not cool with feeling ashamed or like a half-assed failure of a vegetarian. (It's funny how you can go for EONS without eating meat, and then as soon as you do, you get treated by *certain* vegetarians like they knew all along that you weren't cut out for the honorable lifestyle. Give me a break! I should point out, though, that all of you have been incredibly supportive, despite the shock. Thank you for that.)
Anyway... here's to hoping that this experiment will help Marty's blood get better.