As an adult, it seems strange that there was a time when I did not know that the meat on my plate once mooed or bleated or clucked, but there it was. There is always the time before we knew something, and that time, in this case, was uncomplicated-ly delicious. I ate hot dogs and hamburgers and Christmas turkey, and I deep-fried potatoes in their leftover fat. It was food, and it was good.
Then, in grade two, a kid at school changed my relationship with meat forever.