Our theme for the month of October is “flash nonfiction.” Writers were asked to submit pieces that were 250 words or less.

I grew up knowing where my meat came from and why. Every year my brother and I named our steers, knowing full well they would be on our dinner table the next year. Don’t get me wrong, those cows had a good life, all things considered: a peaceful, free-range existence with all the food, water, and salt licks they could dream of.

Now, as a twenty-three-year-old living thousands of miles from my family farm, I almost never eat meat. I can’t remember the last time I bought meat at the grocery store, though I admit that I will occasionally get a meal with chicken when I eat out. 

I think my parents, especially my dad, are really surprised by my dietary changes. But I’m fortunate to have enough resources to buy a balanced vegetarian diet, and I have no desire to support the truly horrific conditions of factory farms (though farmers really do mean well), or the associated GHG emissions. 

But I recognize my personal choice in the matter, and if someone hospitable invites me for dinner and makes something with meat, I eat it without complaint. I see the value of extreme positions on what we eat, but I fear the damage to relationships and community that may come from rejecting well-meant hospitality. 

Rightly or wrongly, it’s the middle ground I’ve struck for now, certainly a far cry from my childhood as a self-described “meat-a-tarian.” Veganism is next on the menu, if only I can work up the will to cut out cheese.

Photo: the view from the front porch of my childhood farmhouse (photo credit: Julie Spackman).

Lillie Spackman

Lillie grew up on a forty-acre hay farm in Central Oregon, making the trek to Michigan to study mechanical engineering and sustainability. After graduating in 2020, she moved to Rochester, NY, where her day job as an engineer for the local gas utility funds her outdoor adventures, love of books, various craft projects, and investment in her new community.