Tales from Rural Maine: Corned Beef

Today, my grandmother invited me to an Easter/Irish celebration happening next Saturday in Orrington, which features as a highlight, corned beef. She mentioned the corned beef roughly seven times in our conversation. Every time, she said it like it was exciting, like they were offering hot air balloon rides or fresh apple cider. And each time, I cringed. But we were on the phone, so she couldn't see that.

I've been a vegetarian, pescetarian, or vegan for 21 years. I haven't eaten beef, corned or otherwise, since before I could vote. Suggesting to a compassionate vegetarian that she really ought to attend an event highlighting corned beef is not a particularly thoughtful invitation. To be honest, I felt confused, unhappy and uncomfortable. But, I didn't want to be rude. I also didn't understand why she would be advertising corned beef to me. So, finding nothing more clever or graceful to do, I just didn't acknowledge the corned beef. Which is why she kept mentioning it. Finally, my lack of response encouraged her to take a different tack.

"Oh!" She said. "I know! The corned beef is from Wee Bit Farm. I bet you know them!"

I took a deep breath, as yogis are likely to do in these types of situations.

"Yes," I said, slowly. "I know those cows. They are lovely and have beautiful long hair. To be honest, I prefer them when they are alive."

"Oh," said my grandmother. Now it was her turn to be silent while she figured out what to say. I gave her a moment and we paused. And then she said, "It hadn't occurred to me that corned beef was made from cows."

And this, my friends, is the problem with meat-centric culture. I love my grandmother. My grandmother loves me. She was attempting to be kind by including me on an Easter/Irish adventure. I share this dialog not to point out something about my nearly 82-year old grandmother, but because it's just such a clear illustration of how most American meat eaters completely disconnect from what they are actually eating. It's corned dead cows. I don't know what "corned" is, but I know--I really, really know--what "beef" is. And so should you.

Cows are really sweet, gentle beings with simple needs and big, beautiful eyes. They feel fear and hunger and pain. They enjoy comfort and companionship. They experience suffering when their physical bodies are harmed or when their emotional bodies are tormented. If you want to eat them, go ahead. I’m pro-choice. Eat what you want. But do yourself the kindness of making a mindful choice. (And if you’d like to try some vegan food, there’s a vegan meet-up at McLeod’s in Bucksport on Saturday night (3/23)—same day as the corned beef event in Orrington.)

I will also say that the cows in the corned beef in question were not factory farmed. The folks at Wee Bit Farm and I feel differently about how cows stack up in our world view, but they are not out in Orland cramming thousands of cows into hideous spaces. I'm not here to criticize the folks at Wee Bit. If you're going to eat corned beef, better that you get it from cows that have lived a good life nearby before they were ground up to make your dinner.

My point is really this: My choice is not to kill cows (or any other mammal) for food; your choice is your own. Whatever choice you make, I just really think we would treat our "food"--and ultimately ourselves--better if we first treated the animals we kill for food like the living, loving, sentient beings that they are. And one of the ways we can do that is by acknowledging what our food really is and where it really comes from.

This is Christopher, who will never be eaten because he is lucky enough to live at the Maine Farm Animal Advocates  sanctuary in Orland, Maine. Christopher is very peaceful and when young guests come to the sanctuary, he is the easiest friend to pet. His curls feel really wonderful and his size is hard to comprehend, even for grown-ups.

Tales from Rural Maine: The legacy of Samantha Smith

Among the saddest days of my childhood was August 25, 1985. On this day, Samantha Smith, a bright and shining light in the form of a 13-year-old girl, died with her father in a plane crash in Maine. I never met Samantha, but I felt deeply connected to her.

Like Samantha, I was from a small town in Maine. We were both practical and sensitive, inclined to write letters to world leaders. And with our birthdays just two days apart, I always felt that we were together, a part of something special. Samantha had this effect on people—to unify them, to connect them, to make them feel a sense of togetherness.

Samantha and I shared a desire that many children of our generation shared, a desire for peace and understanding between all nations. When we were just ten years old, Samantha and I each wrote letters to world leaders, asking about nuclear war, asking our leaders please not to have one. I wrote mine to President Ronald Reagan and got no response. She wrote hers to to Soviet Premier Yuri Andropov. When he didn’t reply, she followed up with a letter to the Russian embassy. A few months later, Andropov replied in a personal letter written to Samantha.

Samantha Smith with Andropov's letter. Image courtesy of SamanthaSmith.info 

From there, things took off. There was a lot of press attention and Samantha and her family were invited to visit the Soviet Union as guests of the Premier.

This beautiful and exciting journey of peace absolutely captivated me. I believed in the power of little girls to make a difference. I believed in the power of love and peace. I believed in the power of togetherness. And I believed in the power of words on paper. Samantha Smith proved that all of that faith was justified.

In July of 1983, Samantha (now aged 11) and her parents embarked on a two-week tour of the Soviet Union. For those who didn’t live through that time, it may be impossible to understand how significant this was. She was full of grace and kindness; she was authentically, sincerely good. Americans and Soviets alike were riveted by this beautiful girl and her simple message of open-heartedness and peace.

In December of that year, Samantha gave a speech in Japan at the Children’s International Symposium on the Year 2001. She wished for something she called the International Granddaughter Exchange, where the highest political leaders all over the world would send their grandchildren or nieces and nephews to live for two weeks in the homes of their biggest international rivals. She believed that if we did this, then the year 2001—when Samantha and I would turn 29—could be “the year when all of us can look around and see only friends, no opposite nations, no enemies, and no bombs.”

I believe that Samantha’s life, though cut short by that plane crash in 1985, made an immeasurable difference, and I have always believed that if she had lived to adulthood, she would have continued to steer us on a much-needed course toward world peace. Today, when I am 40 years old and she is 27 years gone, I find I have not forgotten her actions, or her words, or the fiery spark of faith she kept alive in me—faith in peace, faith in my fellow human beings, faith in the power of little girls to make a difference.

The author in 1982

My niece, who was born and raised in a small town in Maine just like Samantha and I, is now only a few months shy of the age when Samantha and I wrote our letters to President Reagan and Premier Adropov. Samantha and I lived in fear that there would be a nuclear war—and we, along with so many kids in our generation—did not see the sense in this. So much has changed since then—thanks, I believe, in part because of Samantha—that today my niece said these words to me: “What’s a nuclear bomb?”

She asked because I had been watching a documentary on World War II before she arrived, and a black-and-white image of soldiers was freeze-framed on my TV when I paused it. “Is that war?” she asked. And we talked about World War II, about the Soviet Union, and about nuclear bombs. She had never heard of any of those things.

In just one generation, we went from little girls in Maine trying to stop a nuclear attack by reaching out to world leaders, to little girls in Maine having absolutely no idea that any of that was ever necessary.

On the one hand (as a child of the 80s I feel free to say), that’s totally awesome. We have changed the world so much that not only is my niece not afraid of a nuclear war, she’s never even heard of a nuclear bomb.

On the other hand, I can’t help but think that something has been lost if Bucksport’s fourth-graders aren’t more aware of what came before them. I imagine they’ll get to it, eventually...

And, in the meantime, I will continue to wish the wish of my generation, expressed by our young ambassador, Samantha Smith: that we might look around the world and see only friends—and not because we have eradicated those who are unfriendly, but because we have made the effort to understand and to be understood by those who might otherwise be our mortal enemies.

I am not a high political leader, and I don’t have any grandchildren, but if anyone wants to trade nieces for a couple of weeks, I will welcome yours with all the warmth and friendliness that a girl from Maine has to offer--and if you knew Samantha Smith, then you know…that’s no small thing.

With my niece at my 40th birthday party