I was raised a vegetarian, for no good reason other than that my parents strive to be different (no institutionalised holidays, particularly not Christmas, no friends, etc). I reached 17 without the slightest morsel of meat passing through my lips (not including the tongues of hormonal teenage boys, urgh).
My boyfriend at the time was Macedonian- a tall, beautiful, guitar playing dickhead. His family had fled war-torn Yugoslavia when he was eleven, and his parents had learned little english. Upon learning that the prodigal son had found himself a girlfriend, they invited me around for tea.
I arrived at their home to the rich smells of something wafting about their living room. His parents were darling, and we had a difficult conversation of nods and smiles. His mother took me by the arm into their backyard, grinning and nodding, to our meal- an entire suckling pig, roasting slowly on a spit above a homemade barbie.
I was desperate to please his parents, who had gone to so much trouble in my honour. I tucked into a plate of the pig, delighted by its salty richness, renouncing every vegetarian bone in my body. They piled my plate up again and again. My stomach bulged, and twisted, and I had to dash to the toilet to vomit. Again and again and again. I spent the night curled on their bathroom floor, as my body reacted to the meat of another animal- an entirely foreign concept until then! His parents regarded me with a certain wariness after that dinner.
Nowadays, I love meat. LOVE it. I’ve done my time and I’m making up for it. Ethical problems aside, it’s bloody delicious. And although my exotic ex was an asshole for whom I moved cities for, only to receive a thoroughly broken heart, I am grateful for his ignorance today- after all, who on earth doesn’t recollect his girlfriend’s vegetarianism when his parents are basting a pig in her honour?