The one time of the year I eat meat

Some of you may remember this post, where I briefly explained my path to vegetarian/flexitarian-ism. And while it's safe to say that I am now a wholly-committed vegetarian, there is still one time a year wherein I partake of a minuscule amount of meat. In my case, meatballs. (And only three.)

Said day is my family's Easter (or, in this case, week after Easter) feast, in which my aunt makes all of my great-grandmother's Italian recipes. None of which are even remotely vegetarian. Thus, while my husband and daughter thoroughly enjoyed their sauceless homemade pasta, I partook of the sauce that is marinated with meat and my three meatballs (while abstaining from the ravioli), partially to ensure that the ghost of my great-grandma Rose would not haunt me what forever and ever amen, and partially because I still want to participate in my family's Easter ritual.

Behold, the holy feast.

Which all gave pause to some serious introspection about the cultural/emotional value that we all assign to food, but since I want to keep this light, I won't go into it. Though let it be said that this whole inner conflict would not exist if my aunt didn't make some damn good meatballs.

And somewhere, Rose (with a picture of Karl Malone clasped in her hand) is smiling.

Amen.