No really, I ordered the steak

Despite eating meat almost every day of the week, at weddings, funerals and airplanes, vegetarian dishes are forced upon me.

This has been happening for years.  I have narrowed it down to the fact that I am blonde, pale and soft-spoken, but if you have any other ideas, let me know.

At a good friend’s wedding, a fist fight almost broke out because they kept bringing me real vegetarian’s entrees, all the while I was pleading for my steak.  On my most recent Porter flight, the flight attendant gave me the vegetable sandwich, put her hand on my arm, said, “Here you go, honey,” and gave me a squeeze and a tilted-head smile.  Everyone else had asked, but with me, somehow she “knew” I was a vegetarian.

Not that there’s anything wrong with that.  Some of my closest friends are vegetarians, and I do eat a ton of veggies a done, but give me meat – red, if possible – any day.

And though people are good intentioned, I think it is just hard to believe that I like meat as much as some big burly guy who can enter one of those stupidly huge steak eating contests – and win.  Just because I can’t pound it back doesn’t mean I don’t love it.

Partly it’s hard to believe that a woman would love meat as much as a man.  But instead of chocolate or roses, I am happiest curled up on the couch with my Meat Bible (yes, that’s its real name) or in the kitchen concocting a new spicy rub to smother our dinner with.

I know this because most of my women friends order fish or chicken when we go out to dinner.  Me?  I’m the one asking for the lamb chops, liver or roast beef.

Even when I’m reviewing a restaurant, my instinct is often to go for the homemade burger, meat pie or beef stew, though I vary my selections from week to week so that the readers have options.  But that doesn’t mean I’m not still craving it when I get home from dinner.

And while I may not get meat at every single meal, it’s just about 99% of them.  I’ll go to vegetarian restaurants with friends, but it’s like going to a place that doesn’t serve alcohol – the whole time I’m there, it’s all I can think about and later that night or the next day, I have to satiate that craving before it drives me bonkers.

My neighbours have become most used to it.  When I cook, I often leave the apartment door open so that if they want to stop in to join us, they can.  We are at the front of the building – they have to pass by our place to get to theirs, so it’s easy to lure them in.  However, most of these folks are either vegetarian or eat meat so rarely that they almost never want to partake.  And it’s made me realize just how much meat we consume.

Last month, our lovely (vegetarian) neighbours Ben and Darren dropped by to say high, and I was dredging bloody lamb loins through olive oil, garlic and spices.  It was like a scene out of Zombieland.  The night before, Paul down the hall (we love that it rhymes too) came by to see me comprising a tourtiere from scratch .  I had cooked a ton of ground pork and ground beef separately, so I had two huge bowls teaming with hot meat and deep dish pie crusts covering the kitchen table.

I think he thought I’d taken up catering.

No, it’s just for the two of us, I told him.  I got the same look that I got from the flight attendant – Of course it is, honey.  You’re making it for your husband.  You’ll just have the vegetables, he thought.

Now, I’m not a barbarian about it.  I like to be ladylike when eating meat.  I take small bites, chew politely, etc., but I’m also not adverse to getting a little gristle in there, or sopping up the blood with a chunk of fresh bread.

I know I don’t look like a meat eater.  I get it.  I have had servers in restaurants, sometimes even the managers and owners, telling me that I surely don’t want my meat done medium rare, or wouldn’t I prefer the Cornish hen.  But it’s not like a girl on a date who just orders a salad to appear dainty.  What would I be trying to prove be ordering the porterhouse if that’s not really what I want?

So I continue to go to the meat counter, while people assume that my husband must have sent me with explicit instructions.  That there’s no way that a pale blonde could love meat as much as a guy.

I don’t mind.  Because when I get home, I’ll be tucking into a juicy Venison Ragu or some Spicy Bulgogi Beef.

And there’s more than enough should the neighbours decide to join us.