“I’d like to pick up my turkey Wednesday instead of Tuesday,” I said to the Hemlock Hills Farm store manager at the end of the phone line. “Is that all right?”
I heard a tremulous note in my voice. Why did I feel so…uneasy?
“That’s fine,” the manager replied cheerily. “We process the turkeys the day before pick-up. I’ll make a note.”
Great. Fantastic. I’d just signed my turkey’s death warrant.
My death row turkey
I told myself to be rational and reasonable. The turkey had a good life—a great life—on a nice farm along New York’s Hudson River.
Unlike his miserable factory-farmed brethren, he didn’t come into the world “engineered” by Machiavellian agricultural scientists. He enjoyed his days in a spacious pasture, strutting freely on strong legs unbowed by CAFO overfeeding. Along with his grain, he pecked for bugs, seeds and grass—because he had a beak, for heaven’s sake. (Industrial “farmers” chop-off turkey’s beaks so the birds don’t fight with each other in their dark, overcrowded sheds.)
And finally, my turkey didn’t endure the fear, thirst, rough handling and injury that come with transport and mass slaughter.
He died quickly on the farm where he lived his entire life. I should be happy. I should be ecstatic. I should be turning cartwheels.
But I’m not.
Vegetarian’s holiday dilemma
Though I cook meat a couple of times a week for my carnivorous family, I rarely eat it myself: The more I delve into the details of pasturing, grass-feeding, humanely raising and “processing” animals, the less I want to eat them.
On the other hand, it is Thanksgiving. I can’t plunk a bowl of lentils in the center of our family’s damask-covered table.
More’s the pity.
There’s a Woody Allen joke here somewhere.
“I don’t mind dying, I just don’t want to be there when it happens,” said the deadpan comedian. That’s the way Americans feel about meat—we don’t mind consuming it, as long as we don’t have to feel connected to the animals’ awful lives and appalling deaths.
Well, thanks to my phone call, I’m connected. That means on Thursday when I sit down to Thanksgiving dinner, I’ll also have to sit with ambivalent feelings.
Turkey photo courtesy of HeyPaul.
Ugh. I empathize. I just picked up a 21 lb bird from Hemlock Farm and felt the same ambivalent feeling as I was washing it to soak it in a brine. I usually pick up a free range hormone/antibiotic free bird from Stew’s and rationalize that I can’t afford a pastured organic bird. And it’s partly true. Do I pay $4.49/lb or $2.99/lb? With this economy, the answer is a no brainer.
But, after learning what “free-range” truly means, a realization of what really matters struck me hard. So, I’ll spend less on side dishes, I’ll skip lunch this week (and trust me, I can live without a couple of those after Thanksgiving), and spend a little extra for some peace in knowing that the bird lived a “great life”, as you say. I’ll also look at it this way, without the income from organic turkey sales (the line was out the door, by the way, when I picked up mine), the small family run farm will suffer and they will be another fallen victim to factory farms. After all, I do love their other products too. So as much as I dread for the turkey’s final demise, I’ll be supporting the farm by buying the turkey. How’s that for a rationalization?
Not to minimize the importance of our dilemma, at least we’ll be surrounded by our family, sharing laughter, eating delicious foods (vegetarian dishes too), and exchanging stories.
Happy Thanksgiving!
Thanks for this, Karen. Your bring up a crucial issue: support for small farms. I tend to focus exclusively on the humanitarian issue of animal welfare. But buying ethically-raised meat also has social, economic, cultural and environmental ramifications. I salute you for doing the right thing! Here’s wishing your family a very happy Thanksgiving. XO