Note: This was the post I wrote about my recent break from pescatarianism, which I did not get the chance to post before Nina scooped me with her guest post.
Confession: for over two months now, I have been living a lie. I continue to tell people that I am a devout pescatarian, that is, an otherwise-vegetarian who eats meat from the sea. In point of fact, I have had meat-from-the-lands twice in the past two months. What meat might you think would break my pescatarian will, which had gone unbreached since sometime in the latter part of the Clinton administration? Guess.
Go on, guess, I'll wait.
Steak? Pork chops? Chicken tenders? Giant shank of lamb? Veal? Duck? Venison? Fellow plane crash survivor? No, these are all temptations I have been able to successfully resist. Instead, my gastronomical Achilles heel turns out to be bratwurst.
Bratwurst. How sick is that?
What's more sick is how it happened. On Labor Day weekend, as I was driving home from Borders, something carnevil possessed me as I passed by the World's Largest Brat Fest being hosted in the Hilldale Mall Parking Lot. I bought two, slathered them in mustard, and ate them. All by myself. I think when most people who are vegetarian/pescatarian break down and eat something that was formerly a dietary restriction, they probably cave in when they are in a group of people, perhaps even as a result of the pressure or encouragement of those with them. Or maybe they cave because they are drunk and the bar they are in is giving out free bacon. What they don't do is cave right in the middle of the day and for bratwurst. Just to prove that my little tete-a-tete with bratwurst was not a one-time fling--it didn't mean anything, honest!--I got bratwurst again when I went with friends to see the Hawkeyes last month. I would even say that I was looking forward to it.