meat

Dear Jonathan Safran Foer,

I'd like to invite you to dinner. Should you come, I will make you a vegetarian meal because I respect people's individual choices, even though I'm an omnivore, which--in your eyes--seems to make me a bad person. But I have friends who don't drink, either, and I'd no sooner force a Belgian ale on them than I would force bacon on you.

Which is not to say that I don't have my beliefs. I do. I'm a hunter--for meat, not trophies--and I enjoy eating meat, and taking responsibility for it. I fish, too, and I've raised and butchered chickens and ducks. I tend to fall in Anthony Bourdain's camp, and see vegetarianism as a first-world luxury that can be insulting to certain cultures when mishandled as edict or philosophy (except, of course, religious strictures). Those are my beliefs in a nutshell, and they're just that--my beliefs.

If I wouldn't force bacon on you, why would I force my beliefs?

You know what? Maybe you're not getting a fair shake. Admittedly, I'm judging you based only on the strength of the book you wrote telling me that the things I enjoy are not only evil, but ridiculous. At least, according to what you say in Emily Stokes' column about lunch with you.

“...I find a certain kind of foodiness silly, gluttonous and embarrassing.” He pauses, looking up. “Look, taste is clearly the crudest of our senses: this is scientifically, objectively factual. It is less nuanced. Eyesight is extraordinary – hearing, touch. I find people who devote their whole lives to taste a little strange.” He stresses the last words as if this was a vast understatement.

But hey. I'm willing to give you the benefit of the doubt. Come on over for dinner. We'll talk about something else to make conversation less contentious. Maybe writing?

Indeed, most of Foer’s responses to my questions about writing tend towards the negative. He used to collect things to inspire him; is this still the case? No, he’s in more of a stripping down phase. Did his wife help edit his book? No, not really. Was there a moment when Foer realised he wanted to be a writer? “No,” he says, meekly. “A swimmer doesn’t like swimming just because he was born with a swimmer’s body.”

Oh, hold on. Really? You're like a reluctant Michael Phelps of writing--not just successful, but born to it, even though you don't want it? Must be rough, when success is thrust upon you unwanted. Listen, even though I'm like a swimmer born with the body of an anchor, I don't begrudge you your success--just the way you talk about it.

So maybe we can't talk about writing, either. What, then? Here's a thought: Let's just talk about you, a topic with you seem absolutely comfortable. I'll make some vegetarian dishes, and you can explain to me how you're not being pretentious, self-righteous or smug. What do you say?

Let me know what night works for you.

Best,

cb