Whenever I cook meat in my home, there is always that one moment in which I realize I’m holding a dead animal in my hands.
I pull out two chicken legs and notice the follicles from which feathers once grew. The bones sticking out of the meat suddenly look like one word to me: violence.
Somehow I’m no longer sure whether it’s alright for a chicken to die just so I can eat it. I suddenly see the chicken alive – a carefree creature running through the meadows.
Being vegetarian or a vegan is not a question of being alternative or leftist anymore. Even McDonald’s offers a veggie burger.
All arguments seem to speak for vegetarianism and veganism: the happiness of animals, the environment and human health. Whoever choses to eat meat really only has one argument left: it tastes good.
I write a weekly recipe column in DIE ZEIT Magazine. Whenever I write something about chicken wings or meatballs, I get angry e-mails and online comments. For some people, veal steaks are not food but leftovers of a murdered baby.
Just because others think that being vegetarian is modern and urban doesn’t mean I should, too. Maybe it’s a trend. Then I could wait until the trend is over, just as I did with tattoos. Some magazines have even already started a counter revolution – advertising meat eating as if there’s no tomorrow.