Meat Is More Disgusting Than Ice Cream Could Ever Be

Another very polarizing food opinion!

“Disgusting meat, “ by Substack AI

God of the Desert writer Daniel Sherrier just shocked the world, or at least the Substack, with his recent announcement that he doesn't like ice cream. In fact, he thinks it's disgusting.

When it comes to unpopular opinions, that's certainly a doozy. But I think I might be able to match the blistering hotness of this take with a food opinion of my own.

Despite the fact that, not two hours ago, I brought home two huge cartons of the delectable, frozen stuff of Sherrier’s nightmares, my first instinct is neither to criticize, nor to mock. No, not for me the shrill, increasingly hysterical suggestion that perhaps Sherrier also does not like puppies, or happiness, or even love itself. Why not? Even though I love ice cream and consider it proof of a benevolent God, I can't point a judgmental finger. For I, too, know what it's like to suffer from taste buds that just won't go along with what the rest of the world has concluded is not only perfectly normal, but, in fact, delicious:

I hate meat. And I think the act of eating it is so gross that it makes me feel faint.

In fact, I'm so existentially sickened by meat - just as a concept - that I have refused to consume any kind of former animal - beef, chicken, seafood - since I was two years old. That's 36 years, for those playing along at home. It's true that there have been a few unfortunate incidents - heating up the wrong Hot Pocket and getting a mouthful of foul pepperoni; biting into a vile chicken quesadilla that should've been a cheese. But beyond the occasional accidental taste, I've been a nearly lifelong vegetarian.

Oh, God, you might be thinking. She's one of those assholes? No! I'm really not! See?

First, I'm definitely not trying to convert you. The fact that you eat meat usually doesn't bother me, even if I'm there. I'll happily share a meal with normal people who are eating normal food, which we have decided is meat food. It's fine! I'm fine!

Let's just say, though, that if I stand up suddenly during the meal and tell you I'll be right back, you just let me go. In fact, I need to actually clear out of the house when my partner eats tuna. What a stench! But I leave for his sake as much as mine, I promise.

Second, no, I don't think I'm better than you, dear chicken-nugget-loving, steak-savoring reader. In fact, I readily acknowledge you're more evolved than I am. Where I would eventually starve to death or lose my mind trapped in the wilderness, with only my sad dandelion greens and unidentifiable berries, you, normal human, would feast like a king on the fauna of the forest. So there's that.

And last, I'm no sanctimonious health nut. I smoke, I get sunburned, and I'm way too carb-positive. So it's not exactly like I live on broccoli and carob. And though like 40% of my heart is devoted solely to the adoration of dogs, it makes sense to me that God created wildlife in part to sustain humanity through nutrition. Factory farms are gross, but you won't find me picketing them - in part because I would faint.

From grossness. Just so we're clear.

So it's not a health or moral stance. I don't eat meat because doing so truly strikes me as a horrific, visceral, revolting act.

I said I don't want to convert anybody, and I don't. But look: I deserve to vent about this once every so often! Especially if we're doing unpopular opinions, and that horse is definitely out of the barn.

Think about what you're doing as you casually order a burger, devour a pizza with all the fixings, or cut into a juicy New York strip: you've taken the flesh of a creature that was living and breathing, like you, and now you've cut into its tender, perfectly massaged and seasoned carcass, and you're rubbing that carcass all around your mouth. You graw at it with your teeth, making it stringy or mushy or pasty, and then you're going to swallow it.

Really?!

That's … that's flesh! That's the corpse of an animal!

I mean, look down at your own thigh right now - or, dear Lord, look at your breast. It's the same damn thing!

Now, see?! Writing that sentence, I just had to grip onto my coffee table to steady myself. I will not faint writing this essay.

There used to be bones in there, you know? You do get that, right? There was a nervous system snaking through there! There were veins and capillaries! There was blood. And you, over there, who ordered that steak rare: don't you see that there's still blood in there?!

Because that's what you're doing when you order something rare, or even medium rare: you're eating blood. “Let's see. Some killers exsanguinate their cadavers, and I suppose that's all right for them. But what I'd really like to put in my mouth tonight is an animal corpse that's still a little bloody. Yes, good sir, bring me one plate of your finest semi-bloodied animal parts!

“And the lady will have the fettuccine Alfredo. What's that, honey? Oh: uhhh, go ahead and bring it in a to-go box.”

This unusual and unusually strong aversion has landed me in trouble more than once. When I was eighteen and living in Germany, I'm sorry to say that I vomited into a houseplant watching a friend whip together uncooked sausage, raw egg, and mayonnaise for some kind of unholy sandwich spread. Then there was the time in my twenties when I ran, puking my guts out, from a restaurant at the tiniest glimpse of my then-boyfriend sucking up bone marrow from the remains of his meal, like stray latte foam up a straw. And there was the incident, only a couple of years ago, when I was home alone, watching a movie in which the characters share a “romantic" plate of oysters. Five seconds into the scene, I was running for the toilet. At least that time, I made it.

I do know this is a really weird reaction to something the overwhelming majority of humans find normal. But what can I do? It's been 36 years. Simply put, I don't know how anyone can consume recently-deceased flesh and not just die of disgust. That texture, that smell, that baffling flavor - it's all absolutely repugnant.

If I really wanted to drive my point home, I could get more specific. I could be even more descriptive about what it is, exactly, about eating meat that makes my skin crawl and my head feels uncomfortably light. But my partner is in bed for the night, so I'm alone, and I'm concerned I might pass out and crack my head open.

I'm sure that, if I did, someone would be there, ready to feast upon a plate of brain tartare.

Well, I wish you bon appétit.