First Flesh

After a solid six years, I have decided to start eating meat again.

Last night I ate three bites of chicken. My body seemed to tolerate this first flesh, although its texture was oddly foreign in my mouth.

It's not officially the first meat I've eaten after six purely meatless years. I've tolerated bits of pepperoni stuck under pizza cheese, sampled meat dishes served to me by well-meaning hosts, and surely consumed a large amount of beef fat and chicken base disguised in Taco Bell burritos and Wege soups.

But it was the first meat I ate intentionally--on purpose, for the sake of eating it. The first time I relinquished my self-specified identity as a Vegetarian.

And who am I now? An ordinary meat eater, I suppose, at least for the next few months. One Who Eats Turkey at Thanksgiving. One Who Seeks Not to Be Seen as a Picky Eater in Another Country.

As for this summer, when I return from Costa Rica?

It's probably back to the Boca burgers for me.