Food, Honestly is a monthly column discussing how people actually eat right now — not through reviews or recipes, but through real talk about cost, convenience and everyday food decisions. We want you to participate in that discussion by telling us what matters to you. Email allysoneatsden@gmail.com to keep the conversation going.
The first vegetarian I ever knew was Lisa Simpson. OK, so I didn’t know her exactly, but when she gave up meat in 1995, it was a revelation to this 14-year-old.
At that age, the only thought I’d put into what I was eating was which Michelina’s microwave dinner I’d have that night. It hadn’t even occurred to me that food could be a choice beyond what sounded good. That some people intentionally avoided meat, gluten, dairy and more. (This was not the era of waiters kicking off your restaurant meal by asking about food allergies or dietary preferences.)
Honestly, not much has changed for me in 30 years. Besides becoming more aware of organic produce, factory farming and knowing real-life vegetarians — no longer just a yellow, spiky-haired cartoon character — I still haven’t done much questioning of what I do and do not eat. I’ve continued my lifelong philosophy of devouring pretty much anything set in front of me. I’ve never sworn off meat or any food for reasons other than I don’t prefer fruit in my desserts and I don’t like mayo on my sandwiches.
Then I watched Netflix’s documentary “My Octopus Teacher,” and read the novel “Remarkably Bright Creatures,” in which Marcellus the octopus was my favorite character. I realized that these creatures are smart.
And in the documentary, there was something about watching an octopus solve problems, recognize and form a friendship with a human, and appear curious that made me think that maybe she shouldn’t be my appetizer. Was I considering giving up my first-ever food? And was it really because of a Netflix show?
It got me wondering how people arrive at these big food decisions, especially when they’re rooted in personal values rather than health-related or religious mandates. How does one decide to avoid meat, meat products or one-offs like octopus, veal, foie gras or lamb?
Part of it is, of course, what our culture, religion and society have decided for us. In America, we don’t really eat animals we’ve deemed cute. (Cats, dogs, adorable little pygmy hippos.) We also don’t seem to eat creatures we consider gross. (Insects, rodents.) But what about intelligent species like Marcellus? Baby animals? Animals subject to cruel practices like overfeeding or overcrowding?
When the decision isn’t already made for us, how do we pick and choose what is and is not OK to eat?
The answer isn’t super tidy, especially as our collective food morals are a moving target. The slaughtering of horses for human consumption, for example, didn’t end until 2007. (Although horsemeat hasn’t appeared on a U.S. menu since the 1980s.) Today, only about 4% to 6% of Americans identify as vegetarians, yet one in four believe itap morally wrong to eat octopus.
I asked a few vegetarian friends, ranging from deeply committed to more lax herbivores, how they arrived at their decisions. Their reasons varied. One cited the influence of “Sassy” magazine in her adolescence making vegetarianism sound cool (we’re older millennials); others mentioned factory farming and animal welfare (the most common response); for someone it was all about health (a powerful motivator) and another simply prefers animals to people (valid).
My daughter, though far from evangelical — the girl loves herself a Good Times burger every now and then — avoids red meat because of its environmental impact. Livestock accounts for around 10% of global greenhouse gas emissions. Oh, and my husband refuses to eat chicken for personal preference, but thatap just him being annoying.
We all seem to draw different moral lines, and maybe the interesting part isn’t exactly where we draw that line so much as that we all draw them somewhere. We think these decisions are deeply rational, and I don’t doubt that some are, but I think they’re also very much an accumulation of emotion, culture, experience and empathy.
For me, apparently, all it takes is a Netflix binge. Which yes, is embarrassing, but also far from the most embarrassing thing about me. And surely I’m not the only one who felt something when the octopus first wrapped her tentacle around Craig’s hand. I mean, influencing is the point of documentaries, right?
The thing is, I like eating octopus. Itap something I occasionally order at restaurants and enjoy. Itap not like I’m deciding to give up apple pie or mayo on an Italian sub or some other objectively gross thing. Giving up a food I actually like strikes me as suddenly self-righteous, like I’m climbing a dangerously high horse one appetizer at a time. That feels weird, too.
As a firm omnivore, swearing off octopus also seems, well, arbitrary. Like…just octopus. To vegetarians and vegans, it probably doesn’t go nearly far enough. I’m still the enemy. To everyone else, it might sound frivolous, inconsequential, ridiculous. Everyone would have a point.
I think, though, that what we choose to eat or not eat is deeply personal. And it can evolve. Our culinary ethos can and maybe should be incomplete, shifting as we learn more, experience more and even fall in love with an especially charismatic Netflix cephalopod.
