The other week I took Julie to task over her werewolf tendencies when it comes to meat. In a gesture of fairness, I suppose I should share something about me and meat issues. I don’t do gristle. I’m sorry–I just can’t eat it. I pick through my food and if I find any on my plate, I cut out.
And when I say gristle, I mean anything that can’t be called meat. Now, I know there’s nothing wrong with consuming it and some people believe it’s good for you, but it doesn’t mean I have to. Supposedly, I’m a member of the highest form of intelligence on this planet and that means I can pick and choose what I eat. I don’t have to eat the skanky bits.
“That’s not fat, it’s connective tissue.”
Oh, connective tissue. That sounds a whole lot more appetizing. I don’t think so.