also read Jonathan Safran Foer’s Eating Animals, an open and hard-hitting answer to the author’s sincere question, If I really knew the realities of animal agriculture, could I still eat meat? At the book’s conclusion, Foer couldn’t. And now, no longer, could I.

When I want meat, I make a call, or I give my sous-chef, my butcher, or my charcutier a look and they make the call. On the other end of the line, my version of Rocco, Al Neary, or Lucca Brazzi either does the job himself or calls somebody else who gets the thing done. Sooner or later, somewhere – whether in the Midwest, or upstate New York, or on