I always knew, as did the rest of my family, and anyone else who eats meat, that what we were putting in our mouths were pieces of dead animal. Of course, there were times as a kid when I asked my parents about whether it was “mean” to “eat a dead cow,” but this was usually shut down with “don’t talk about that at the dinner table.” Or, the day I announced around age 9 that I didn’t want to eat the chicken my mother made for dinner because I thought it was wrong, “well, good luck making your own dinner.” You said your prayers before you went to sleep, you raised your hand in school, and you ate that turkey sandwich for lunch.
For most of my life, eating meat was the most normal thing in the world.
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