I no longer eat meat, barely eat dairy, and have been staying away from wheat and gluten for the most part. This may sound boring, but I am actually a pretty adventurous eater, and if someone cooks for me I will always graciously eat whatever was made. But of more significance, especially for my husband, is the fact that I actually don't mind cooking meat. It all started when I broke out the crockpot to cook 4 lbs of boneless butt pork roast for our new year's eve party; it was a huge hit, and so was the gross yet somehow utilitarian pleasure I derived from handling and cooking the meat. I've since tracked down a local farm to purchase meat, pick my cuts, and go to town. Do I want my daughter to eat meat? No. Never. But I realized what was happening: I was reminded that I absolutely love to make my husband happy, so I've tried to keep the momentum going. Every night this week he came home to amazing meals, and with each night I witnessed a softening (not of his belly, as it's impossible for him to gain weight), but of his heart, and of his thoughts even. Good, tasty food made with love equals good tasty thoughts and feelings in my book. Jeff actually eats on average less than a pound of meat a week, and he loves my meatfree dishes just the same, but I will admit that I still feel guilty when I'm trimming fat off some poor forsaken chicken. At any rate, I wonder if he gets the same rewarding feeling when he cleans the toilet or takes out the trash, tasks that definitely don't smell as nice, but are much appreciated nonetheless.
