scifisam said:
Age 31: After eating very little fish for a long time, decided to stop altogether after working at a cafe and attempting to manhandle a full-size tuna into a freezer. If I couldn't handle (so to speak) holding the thing's body, then I shouldn't eat its food.
You lost me on that one.
I'll eat pretty much anything that isn't off. I don't eat organ food anymore, because I don't want to. We used to get liver when I was a kid, but I've stopped that. I've never eaten brain, tongue, and not going to start now. No haggis, no tripe.
I've had a pig's knuckle before. It was ok, but a lot of work for little meat.
I grew up on the prairies. There was a farm implement place a few blocks away, and a chicken slaughtering place even closer. We used to go watch the chickens hanging on that conveyor belt thing. We didn't go there much, because it was kind of yuck, and it didn't smell good.
But I never stopped eating chicken. I think I always understood that things had to die in order for me, and for everything, to live. I don't know if having your throat slit as a chicken in some concrete building, is a better or worse way to die than being chased down and consumed while still living, by some predatory animal.
I got a job at Canadian Dressed Meats. It was a slaughterhouse, a big operation. It's sort of like something that Breughel would paint, in those places. You can turn your mind off to an extent, but me and the other cleanup guy would throw the hoofs and lower legs into the prebreaker, and squeegee up the foot deep blood from the kill floor just before lunch, then he'd go into the lunchroom and tuck into a roast beef sandwich. He was a farm boy. I couldn't do that. I think I had tuna.
I didn't last long on the job: maybe a week or so. The main reason was that I had really long hair, and I couldn't get the mandatory hard hat to stay on my head. It was too much hassle trying to work, while constantly adjusting your hard hat.
Also, the guys who worked there were psychotic. I didn't really like being around them. The only reason I felt safe was that my friend's dad was the vetrinarian who was on the floor at all times to make sure that standards were met.
Other than that, the pay was so good, that I probably would have stayed longer, but for the hard hat and the psychos.
I worked at a smaller operation, part slaughterhouse, and part ice making facility. I was there mostly to make ice, but you couldn't avoid the little mini kill floor they had there. Or that time there was a dead cow out in the yard. Rigor mortis had set in; its legs were sticking straight up. I poked it with a shovel to see what would happen, but cows have pretty thick hides.
I was working with my cousin, and klepto that he was, he stole this meat that was in the freezer where we used to make ice. We had a big family barbeque, but the meat tasted like the same smell of death that permeated that little kill floor. That one put me off meat for three weeks.
As for free range chickens, I think that means that they're let out in the yard to peck around. I think people have some romantic notion of chickens out there in 'home on the range' territory.
It just means the chicken yard, I think.
I'm drinking less milk these days. I noticed that it bloats me. Maybe I'm lactose intolerant.

I'm not giving up ice cream, though.
As for battery chickens, or battery cows, or whatever, take a look around you at the apartments stacked up, the offices stacked, where we are corralled for our lives.We're sort of like battery chickens to 'the system', ourselves.
Why should chickens have it any better than us?