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No more Linda McCartneys in our house: I’ll be making my own banging bangers from now on – from a powder
I stopped eating meat five and a half years ago after getting close to a lamb in Turkey. I only spent a few minutes with this lamb, whose name, translated, was Courage. But, as these were the closing minutes of the poor lamb’s life, the bond grew very strong, very quickly, before being severed by the knife of its killer. Perhaps, though, the bond is actually as strong as ever, given that I think about him most days.
Until that point in my life, I had been a voracious meat-eater. Most evenings, my dinner table resembled Fred Flintstone’s. I am no massive animal rights campaigner. I am quite happy to sit with people who are eating meat, neither do I mind cooking flesh for friends and family if that’s what they want. I fear that makes me the Centrist Dad of vegetarianism. My logic is merely that, as I happen to be able to feed myself very well without any animals dying, I think it is the right thing to do. Continue reading...