A couple of nights ago, I made my eldest daughter cry. But not because of a pending time-out, a too-harsh rebuke, homework overload, or an imminent grounding. No, I made my daughter cry by feeding her dinner because, you see, I’m a passable home cook, but a very bad person, and the animal I cooked used to be Cute. Before you impugn the meal itself, I’ll readily admit that I’ve cooked any number of things worthy of tears over the years, including enough Chernobyl-ized toast, Super Ball eggs, and flaccid, soggy pasta to fill whole compost bins; even, on rare and precious occasions, a few rock-star successes. But Miss M doesn’t cry over burnt toast, she’s only ever wept for joy over truly faultless sushi (a sentiment of which I’m immeasurably proud), and this meal was neither. It was, in point of fact, quite a bit better than average, and that is where the problem started: Had the food been less tasty, the child would not have eaten it; and, not having eaten it, she would subsequently not have had to mourn its provenance.
My sin, the root of my bad-ness, and the reason my first-born child wept over her dinner is this: I cooked a young goat, presumably a cute one, for dinner (technically, I only cooked a couple of its shanks, but that’s a country mile wide of Miss M’s mark). I have since been informed, in no uncertain terms, that Cute Animals are not to be served as food in the presence of Miss M. This got me wondering, as both parent and cook: What qualifies certain animals as Cute – and, by extension, saves the very coursing of their blood – and not others?
With the the endearing certitude of a child, M patiently explained to me that which was already manifest to her: Goats, apparently, are Cute; so are sheep, and rabbits. Oh, and ducks, although not chickens. (She used to love – love – the smoked duck breast from Willie Bird, asking for it by name at the market, although she now flatly denies it.) Fish and seafood of all sorts – excepting mammals, of course – are of insufficient Cuteness to be spared the butcher’s wrath, and may be eaten without apology; so, too – and herein lies a puzzle within a puzzle – the humble cow, its super-sized doe eyes and gentle demeanor evidently inadequate to offset the appeal of a properly grilled steak.
Where, and why, do we draw these lines? My wife and I spent many years as vegetarians (of the lacto-ovo subspecies, to be precise), but have long since abandoned that particular ship in favor of what is – in our view at any rate, as I’m sure the animals would demur – a more holistic view of the food chain. For her part, my wife will now eat seafood, but not, to a close approximation, land animals; more specifically, she will eat what she is willing to kill with her own hands, which I take to be as reasonable a test as any of personal conviction. I, on the other hand, will eat just about anything, so long as I’m reasonably comfortable with how it lived, and died, before it made its way to my plate; I’m even OK with such PETA-verboten no-no’s as fois gras, veal, and all manner of cute animal, if I believe that that animal was treated humanely prior to its demise.
What about the rest of us? What triggers our moral self to rank the life of an animal over our prerogative to eat? Leather shoes and belts are OK; fur coats are not. Steak from the bovine Auschwitz of a modern CAFO is OK; veal, however raised, generally is not. Chickens are fine, but simians of any sort, clearly, are not. Cows and pigs are fine, but horses and dogs are not – at least if you’re a typical American, but not if you live in various parts of Asia. Kangaroo? That depends on the hemisphere in which you reside. According to one friend of ours, invertebrates are OK, but animals with more advanced nervous systems are not (I actually find that argument more intellectually coherent than most). And I’m sure we all know vegetarians who eat fish (don’t even get me started on contradictory etymology). Do I have to be hungry to kill an animal for food, or is it enough that it merely tastes good? Does a land animal deserve more respect than a sea creature, a turtle than a lobster, a young cow than an old cow? Why is it that the vast majority of us is quite happy to dine on flesh, and yet recoils at the thought of watching – much less participating in – the inevitable death that our dinner required? What is it about perceived Cuteness that differentiates goats and sheep from cows and pigs in the mind of my child?
For the avoidance of doubt, I am not on any sort of crusade, either for or against eating meat; while I have some strongly held personal opinions about the ethics of eating animals, I have very few satisfactory answers to most of these questions, and even fewer that I believe should be imposed on others. I am also genuinely curious about what my daughter thinks, and indeed about what drives most of us towards or away from the butcher’s case. My gut tells me that there is a lot more to be said about this, and that it’s worth talking about, but for now, I’ll leave it at this: Because I cannot bear to see my child cry (unless, of course, she has it coming, and sometimes not even then), I will not feed her any more Cute Animals. But I still want to know why.
I think this is a killer one-pot dish for a dank, inclement night although, in point of fact, I’m cheating, because neither beets, nor my protein of choice – young goat shanks, from the Owen Family Farm up in Hopland – are technically in season right now. But the mild heat and smoky undertone from the chilies, together with the spicy-sweet peppery jam of the wine, seemed a natural bedfellow for the dense, rich, and slightly gamy flavors of the goat (I find it similar to mild, young lamb), and patiently stewed comfort foods always have a seat at the proximal winter table (e.g., check out the Gospel of Braising posted 