I used to only eat meat from sheep whose names I knew. This was not a particularly difficult task: they were all called Sam, through a naming convention established by my father. He assured us it had nothing to do with both his daughters dating people named Sam at the time.
Being vegetarian except for lamb grown on my parents’ farm, from sheep I had likely held as babies, has baffled meat eaters and vegetarians alike. When my parents sold the farm, and the last cuts left the freezer, I stopped eating meat altogether. I didn’t miss it. I never cook it myself and, when given the choice, I will always choose not to eat it.
This carve out – only eat animals you know – has always made perfect sense to me. There are many reasons to be vegetarian or vegan, ranging from ethical objections and environmental concerns to health and financial considerations. Mine was 50/50 environmental and ethical. It is, for me, the lowest friction way to reduce my carbon emissions, a choice so easy it doesn’t even feel like a choice. The ethical consideration was not an objection to the concept of eating meat, but to some modern farming practices that cause significant stress to the animal. Things such as lengthy transport and extended periods of time in a feedlot. I know why those things happen and know the meat industry could not meet its production demands without them. But I preferred to opt out.
With so many family members in farming, I could always get meat directly from the source. I couldn’t tell you, really, why that changes the ethical equation, and I’m sure there will be people rushing to tell me that it doesn’t. But, to me, eating meat when you know exactly how the animal was raised and how it was killed is an entirely different proposition to buying something from the supermarket and never once thinking where it came from.
This is also the basis of the paddock-to-plate movement, which is usually sold as a way of improving sustainability and animal welfare, as well as the quality of the product. This is certainly the case in commercial paddock-to-plate enterprises, although the most direct applications of this philosophy often lose out somewhat on quality. I’m not sure the mutton fritters my grandmother made with the leftover roast from the six-year-old merino would win any gourmet awards. Pop had usually strung it up and butchered it because it had stopped producing. But the fat lambs my parents farmed were always top quality, except for that time the butcher mixed up the carcasses and mum put her fork down in disgust because the lamb he’d sent back had been on clover.
But, for me, again, it’s not really about quality. I’ve never worried about what happens to an animal after it dies so long as it lives well and dies quickly. Guaranteeing that it did live well is where things tend to fall over. This is not to disparage farmers: I know most of you care deeply about your stock and take pride in keeping them well and happy. But I also know all of you will have at least one neighbour whose paddocks you look upon with disdain. And at the supermarket, I can’t tell if a steak came from your paddock or theirs.
There isn’t really a term for this way of eating. That is, eating vegetarian except for occasionally sharing an omnivorous family meal made from meat of known provenance, or in circumstances where the host doesn’t know you prefer not to eat meat and would be embarrassed if you point it out. As a dietary preference, it usually deals in absolutes, which is a shame. It’s much easier to keep it up if you’re less strict about it. And the benefits don’t fade away if you eat the occasional beef rendang.
After two decades of this selective vegetarianism I moved back to the country, coincidentally with another Sam. (This is not on purpose, I swear.)
This Sam eats meat. Most of our meals are vegetarian, but he has started cooking red meat once a week. And although we have not grown the animals ourselves – our six sheep are purely ornamental – I don’t feel weird about eating it, because it was killed just down the road. It’s sold just down the road too, in an outlet shop in Kyneton where you can buy things like a whole eye fillet or a half rump or an unsettlingly large bag of mince. No one shopping there could maintain a mental distance between the huge hunk of meat and the animal it was once attached to, and that’s how it should be.
Not all of the suppliers to that abattoir are local, but many are and the animals are predominantly grass-fed, which means they were able to forage and live out on pasture. It’s not as good as knowing all their names, but it’s a start.
