There's a large dead bird dripping blood in my outside refrigerator. And it reminds me of a story.
When my youngest son was still sweet and kind and tenderhearted, he came downstairs on a Thanksgiving morning, rubbing sleep from his eyes. I was in the kitchen appeasing the Gods of Gluttony by shoving bits of this and that under the skin of that year's offering, as it sat fleshy and raw in a large roasting pan. I stepped away from the pan just as my little boy entered the kitchen. He stopped, looked at the bird, and screamed.
"What's wrong?" I asked in alarm.
"Oh, GROSS!" he shrieked. "I thought that was a baby!"
And for the next ten years, my sweet young son refused to eat another bite of animal...until, that is, something evil appeared in the night, took over his teenaged body, and turned him into a flesh-eating monster. But it was a fun decade while it lasted.
Anyway, I'm in charge of eviscerating another bird tomorrow. Guts. Entrails. Cavities. How does my now-vegan self feel about this?
Oh, GROSS. That's somebody's baby!
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I'll be spending an awful lot of time in the kitchen tomorrow. Here's my inspiration: Raw vegan thanksgiving. We'll see how many of our guests are willing to ladle raw veggies alongside their platters of dead bird.