One man's meat is another man's poison

Being a typical Croatian girl in Australia, I grew up a very devout Catholic. Went to a Catholic school, went to church every Sunday and feast day, got down on my knees and prayed every night, sang in the church choir, taught catechism at public schools, was part of the church's youth group. I also loved reading about the lives of the saints. They had these little books at our church shop that I collected about their life stories and I pored over them day in, day out. Knew them off by heart. I always remember that one of my favourite saints was Saint Francis. I loved his prayer "Make me a channel of your peace", which I also sang in the church choir, I loved his humility, his charity, his enthusiasm, his romantic spirit, his renouncement of wordly goods. But most of all, I loved him because he was the patron saint of animals.

There are many legends that surround him and his love of animals. He apparently preached sermons to birds, pacified a wolf who was tormenting a town, thanked his donkey on his deathbed for his servitude. The Franciscan order even has a special "Blessing of the Animals" which goes like this:

“Blessed are you, Lord God, maker of all living creatures. You called forth fish in the sea, birds in the air and animals on the land. You inspired St. Francis to call all of them his brothers and sisters. We ask you to bless this pet. By the power of your love, enable it to live according to your plan. May we always praise you for all your beauty in creation. Blessed are you, Lord our God, in all your creatures! Amen.”

I think it may have even been St. Francis who inspired me as a young child to want to become a veternarian, such was my love of animals. But, just like being an astronomer, I discovered that it wasn't the "romantic" calling I had imagined it to be when my dad and I took our pet dog to the RSPCA to be put down...

And yet, despite my love of animals, I was the most carnivorous of carnivores you could imagine. I more or less grew up on meat. Hated anything with even the slightest tinge of green. I remember my dad slicing pancetta for me almost every evening, so thin that you could read a newspaper through it, with some spring onion and bread on the side. And my mum's half kilo t-bone steaks with sliced barbequed potatoes. And mortadella sandwiches for lunch at school. And roast suckling pigs at Croatian picnics with crackling so crisp it crunched in your mouth. And cabbage rolls stuffed with minced pork. And of course, le Big Macs which I scoffed down quicker than you could say "two all beef patties, special sauce, lettuce, cheese, pickles, onions on a sesame seed bun".

Although I wasn't a dumb kid, I didn't want to fathom the equations steak = cow or pancetta = pig or KFC = chicken. A bit like Marilyn Monroe, I suppose, who never could comprehend that the steaks (that she apparently ate like there was no tomorrow) on her plate came from cows. To be quite honest, I just plain old didn't want to think about it, was none of my business thank you very much. But then something happened that made me think about it quick smart. Something very sad (to me), a bit bizaare (to many), perhaps even a bit of a laugh (to some).

Four Christmases ago, "Santa Claus" bought my son a pet rabbit. He'd been bothering hubby and I for a pet rabbit for ages, probably since he was two and started watching "Teletubbies" with umpteen rabbits jumping "over the hills and faraway". So "Santa Claus" gave in and bought him a pet rabbit. He was over the moon when he saw it on Christmas morning (it was a bit hard to hide, I can tell ya!), said it was the best present he'd ever gotten, thanked Santa Claus until he went hoarse. We called the rabbit Spot because he had a small spot on his back. So we let him play with Spot a bit when horror struck. Christian in ADHD mode ran around the loungeroom and accidentally stepped on Spot wounding him fatally. Now, I know that some of you are going to burst out laughing when you hear this, but when I saw that little bunny in rigor mortis mode, it totally put me off meat forever. I quite abruptly understood the steak = cow and pancetta = pig and KFC = chicken equations and haven't eaten them since.

So there you have it, the soul-baring story of how the Knitting Songbird went veg. I have to say that not many people know the story. I either avoid telling it ("it's a long story" or "you don't want to know") or, God forgive me, lie ("because of my liver" or "I don't like the taste of meat"). I mean, it's a bit embarrassing, man!

But, embarrassing or not, I'm more than pleased that I became a vegetarian, despite the strange and perhaps Monty Python-esque circumstances in which it took place. Yes, I occasionally miss a good piece of t-bone steak or some pancetta or a slice of mortadella (nothing gets me more than the scent of freshly sliced mortadella) but I feel that my health, both physical and mental, has improved. The 6th commandment is "You shall not kill". I'm glad I don't anymore and that I don't eat my "brothers and sisters" as St. Francis called them.

And just for the record, even though I may not be one any more, please don't get me wrong - I love all you carnivores out there!