Mustering some sympathy for the bedeviled ham and beef
Could you kill your own dinner?
“What I feared most was the screaming. Desperate cries from a freaked-out pig might ruin bacon for me forever. I’d spent the previous two days hanging out with happy hogs at the idyllic Newman Farm on the Arkansas– Missouri border. I watched them trot around the fields, wag their curly tails and flop in pools of mud. I even held one in my hands when it was only a few hours old. But here I’d come, five hours across Missouri to Trimble, just outside Kansas City, Mo., to witness the other end of a pig’s life cycle. Comfortingly, the place was called Paradise Meat Locker. So why was I here? I asked myself the same question as I nervously pulled on shoe guards, tucked my hair in a shower cap and snapped up my lab coat right outside the kill floor door. I didn’t want to see a pig get killed. Heck, I don’t think anyone does.”