kicking vegetarianism in the pants.

So my friend Sarah informed me this morning that yesterday was World Vegetarian Day, and she wanted to know what I'd done to celebrate. This holiday could not have come at a worse time for me. Instead of joining hands with other like minded fans of Tofurkey sausage (I actually ate this last week and it was NOT THAT BAD) and planting crap in a community garden, I spent my day of meatless empowerment barrelling down the 401 in my brand new Honda Civic, emitting fossil fuels and listening to Heat by Bill Buford, a book that is not exactly vegetarian in focus. At one point as Bill recounted losing his shit and travelling to Tuscany to apprentice with a master butcher, I found myself thinking, "huh, cured rendered pig fat spread on a slice of bread actually sounds kind of delicious!"

Butcher talk aside, it's a really wicked book for anyone who loves dining out and is mildly obsessed with the whole celebrity chef phenomenon. Buford spends over a year working at Babbo, a NYC restaurant owned by Mario Battali, who's the quintessential fiery celeb chef, and his stories about everything from continuing to work after he's sliced the tip off his finger to the surprisingly difficult art of making pasta are hilarious and compelling. The book on CD was fun to listen to, although it made my driving snack of Diet Coke and grapes seem a little lacklustre. I bought and made some tortellini as soon as I got back home, but without the pig fat, it was a little meh. This could be the next step down the slope toward meat eating, which, as we know, began during the infamous Scottish Spring Roll Debacle of 2006. By the end of the week I may be eating turkey and wiping my mouth with a hamburger or something.