The Carnivore’s Dilemma

What are your feelings about eating meat?

Darling, let’s just get this out of the way:
I eat meat. I like it. I even crave it, occasionally, in that primal, “must-have-roast-chicken-and-a-glass-of-red-or-I-might-expire” sort of way.

But I also grew up with a mother who thinks prosciutto is a gateway drug and a father who once genuinely asked if tofu was “a type of soft cheese.” So, as you can imagine, nuance wasn’t served often — and certainly not in the dietary department.

Do I feel a bit guilty about it sometimes? Of course I do.
Because I also adore animals, vote green, and once tried a vegan shepherd’s pie that tasted like heartbreak and pencil shavings.

Here’s the thing:
I’ve tried to go fully vegetarian before. More than once. I even managed three solid months of pulses, chickpeas, and passive-aggressive oat milk. I was glowy. Smug. Borderline evangelical.

Until I cracked at a wedding buffet in Devon. There it was — lamb, slow-roasted, draped over buttery mashed potatoes like some kind of shimmering culinary seduction. I made eye contact with it. It knew.

So now I live somewhere in the middle — aware, selective, annoyingly label-free. I buy better meat when I can. I eat less of it. I try not to lecture anyone about what’s on their fork (unless they’re using it to stab into my plate — in which case, all bets are off).

Because what I’ve learned is this:
Food is emotional. Cultural. Sometimes even medicinal.
And shaming people rarely leads to enlightenment — just indigestion.

Stay fabulous,
Luce 💋