Things I am glad I didn't think too much about before becoming a semi-vegetarian

So, I was tortured with meat by my sisters on our ski trip last weekend. Apparently, they forgot about the whole major-dietary-change thing ... and kept forgetting about if for THREE DAYS. I'll get you all.

We'll start with a happy story: we stopped for pizza on our way up to the mountain Saturday, and I figured I'd have to get some sort of plain cheese thing, or some sort of veggie nonsense with olives and peppers and onions. (There are many vegetables I love, but those are not among them.) I was pleasantly surprised to find out that I could custom-order a slice of veggie pizza with just broccoli and mushrooms. But the awesomest thing about my pizza was that when they said broccoli and mushrooms, they literally meant, "I am going to take a head of broccoli and some mushrooms, cut them up into awesomely giant chunks of flower and stem right now, put them on your pizza, and bake it for you." I had fresh broccoli on my pizza, just like I'd cut it up and steamed it myself. Dominic's in Pocono Lake, PA, you rock!

But my tide of vegetarian happiness was broken on the rocks of Saturday night dinner. I enjoyed a lovely salad, baked potatoes, and garlic bread. But what I did not have were the ribs. Sweet, tangy, pork ribs. Tender ribs, smothered in barbecue sauce. Ample ribs, whose delicious smell teased my nostrils as my companions returned for second helpings. Sad, origin-unknown ribs that I therefore could not eat.

The next morning was the bacon ... but I can live without bacon. (Sausage is another story.) The bacon did prompt some morning nausea, but it's possible that was more alcohol- than meat-related. (Did I mention that the tagline of our trip was, "We do go skiing ... eventually.") I was also not swayed by the deep fried chicken wings the night before, and especially not by the deep-fried Slim Jims that were produced by some of the boys as the evening wore on. (That was also an idea more alcohol- than meat-related.)

The true meat mourning came with Sunday night dinner. At which point, just to be cruel, a plate of sliders was waved in front of me. Not just any sliders: White Castle burgers, fresh from the frozen food package. And they were literally waved in front of me.

This was when I realized that I don't miss meat - I miss junk meat. I miss beef jerky. I miss Chinese food pork spareribs. I miss bourbon chicken. And if someone had pointed out to me at the time I made this decision that I would never again eat a White Castle burger, it is entirely possible I might not have gone through with it.

I'm glad this revelation came after I've been doing this for more than a month; I feel like it's too late to turn back now, and I have to stick to my guns. I'm trying to figure out if I can morally declare an annual junk-meat holiday, but the jury's still out on that one. In the meantime, I'm passing through some delayed stages of meat grief. (Huh, is the junk-meat holiday evidence of bargaining?)