A few weeks before Thanksgiving, I ordered a hamburger at Main Street Meats. Swiss, two strips of bacon laid criss-cross, pickles, hold the mayo and onions, on a Niedlov's wheat bun with an Athletic IPA in a can poured slowly into a pint glass. I was at the bar, corner seat.

The burger looked both gorgeous and intimidating.

It was the first hamburger I'd eaten in 22 years.

In 2002, my wife and I became vegetarians.

We'd just backpacked through Maryland where guides served meat-free meals - thoughtful, enjoyable meals, not like seven days of PBJ - from start to finish. Hmm, we said. That wasn't so bad.

Then, we read Matthew Scully's Dominion, which described the hell-scape of industrial animal farming.

How can we participate in a system that causes such violence and harm to God's creatures? We washed our hands of it.

It was a glowing decision. Without meat in our diet, our bodies felt lighter, like Peter Pan, and also cleaner, sort of the way your mouth feels after you floss.

Through vegetarianism, we discovered confidence, independence and lentils. Back then, we scoured restaurant menus, which felt like lost dog searches - surely, a meat-free option's here somewhere. Endured teasing, jokes (if God didn't want us to eat bacon, he wouldn't make it taste so good) and the same question 1000 times. (So, where do you get your protein?) Like any party of one, we shored up the moats, flew our own flag and kept practicing new ways to bake tofu.

Meanwhile, we weren't being punked by corporate mind-washing - here, eat this, drink this. Our kids grew up vegetarian, yet always with a choice. Over time, it became integrated - simply part of who we are.

Then, for me, it stopped.

That Main Street Meats burger? Yeah, it tasted like you imagine: stunningly good, like hearing a note on a piano that hadn't been struck in 20 years.

A few bites in, though, I tasted something else.

Something I wasn't expecting at all.

So, how'd it happen?

Well, for starters, I met this man, Teddy Gentry.

And this man, Dr. Jim Osborn.

And this man.

That's Sammy Norton, the Meigs County dairy farmer we profiled last summer.

Before we said goodbye that afternoon, he walked us to his fridge and handed us a few pounds of ground beef.

It wasn't just ground beef.

It was an invitation.

Each of these cattle farmers was doing the exact opposite of the industrial horror I opposed. Not only were these farmers personally ethical, but their farms were places of environmental goodness.

Both Gentry's Bent Tree Farms and the Keener family's Sequatchie Cove Farm in Marion County are nationally-recognized places of regeneration, robust wildlife habitat, carbon-capture and longterm, viable sustainability.

They farm cattle.

Their methods help rebuild the world.

"These methods give back to the land more than we take," Kelsey Keener writes in "The Morality of Eating Meat."

"They incorporate animals and plants into a system that promotes biodiversity, keeps our waters and air clean while providing a nourishing balanced diet for humans."

As my ethical reasons began to fade, I'd gotten hungrier, as if craving something that wasn't there. (Bloodwork showed I was about a quart low.)

So, it began slowly: a small bowl of ground turkey. A little ground chicken. A few bites of Pig Mountain Farm's mild sausage.

I started hanging out with Chris LeBlanc, the butcher at Main Street Meats, and the Cherry family. A few months later, the wall came crumbling down: a Main Street Meats burger, my first since W. was president.

Why am I telling you this story?

'Cause it's not really about vegetarianism. Or burgers.

To me, it's about the invitation to let go. To acknowledge change. Maybe even, God forbid, welcome it.

Full disclosure? All cards on the table? My friends, that's about the hardest damn thing in this world for me.

There's an old story that goes like this:

An elder monk is walking through the forest with a novice monk-in-training.

They reach a stream.

There, at its banks, is a gorgeous, but haughty, princess. Not only dressed like a diva, she acts like one.

"One of you," she ordered, "carry me across this water so I don't get wet."

The elder monk didn't hesitate; bending low, he picked up the princess, lifting her high above the rushing water. He slipped on wet rocks, skinned his knees, muddied his robes, but somehow kept the princess aloft, clean and dry.

They reach the far shore. He set her down.

She huffed, puffed and marched away. No word of thanks, no gratitude, no nothing.

The junior monk was astonished, then enraged. As the two monks continued their journey through the forest, he fumed internally:

"That rude woman ... how could she ... does she realize who carried her? ... I wish he'd dropped her ..."

Miles and miles went by. The elder monk, sensing his apprentice's brooding anger, like a big dark cloud, finally stopped.

"Is something bothering you?"

"Master," he began, "that princess was so rude! So arrogant! After all that ... and she didn't even say thanks!"

The elder monk paused, inhaled, exhaled, then replied:

"I put her down miles ago," he said.

"Why are you still carrying her?"

In my life, I carry many things: grudges, fears, expired memories that have no relevance, biases, judgments, hurts large and small.

Each day - not most days, mind you, but every day - I carry expectations for how things should be. Beliefs about me and how I'm supposed to act. Who I am. Who I am not.  

For a long time, that included being a vegetarian.

Until it didn't.

Maybe you, too, have this quiet, internal whisper; you already know what needs letting go, right? But damn, our white-knuckle grips are tight.

It's hard.

And we're frightened. To borrow from Charlie Brown and those Gospel shepherds: yes, I am sore afraid. Sore afraid of an awful lot.

Seems like America is carrying a lot right now. Lot of resentments, grievances and mountains of belief - about this person, that group, this policy, that president. We don't mix and mingle like we used to; there's a rigidity that can feel like a prison.

Like the elder monk, how do we set things down?

How do we let things go?

That's what I tasted in that burger. This surprise ingredient.

It was pliability, flexibility.

You might even call it freedom.

After 20 years of one thing, there was the grace to find another.

My little burger story doesn't happen without others: the generous Sammy Norton to my man Chris LeBlanc to the Osborns and Cherrys and on and on.

It's relationships, all the way down. They're the portal through which we receive the grace that allows us to grow and let go.

Little by little, bite by stunning bite.

Story ideas, questions, feedback? Interested in partnering with us? Email: david@foodasaverb.com

This story is 100% human generated; no AI chatbot was used in the creation of this content.