We are a house of carnivores. Rae and I love our meat; beef, chicken, lamb, pork – basically anything but rabbit – with mustard, with veggies, with chips, on the barbie, on the George Forman Lean Mean Grilling Machine, roasted, on skewers, in stir fry.
Last night it was steak. Beautiful rare porterhouse steak with chips and steamed veggies. Then came warning sign #1.
“I love this meat.” says Phee. Instantly we know trouble is on the horizon for as soon as Phee starts talking about her dinner it means she’s about to stop eating it.
Two chips and a bit of broccoli later.
“Where does this meat come from?” asks Phee.
“Cows.” we reply.
“From a farm?” comes the wavering voice as she pokes a bit of dead cow on her plate.
“Yep. Just like the meat in your cheeseburger. It’s beef from a cow.”
This leads to only a temporary pause as Phee decides that we are wrong about cheeseburgers but what’s on her plate in front of her does come from a cow.
“It’s wrong to grow a cow to eat it.” and the (crocodile) tears begin to well.
Oh boy. She’s 7. She can’t get the hang of yesterday/today/tomorrow but she’s concerned about cow welfare. Sorry Phee, but until you can cook your own lentils you’re going to have to eat what we eat. Even if it is from a cow from a farm.