Of course I'm not a vegetarian. Sheesh.

At one of my neighborhood's monthly summer festivals this year I was introduced to a 'friend-of-a-friend,' who happened to be a vegetarian. The usual small talk questions ensued, but quickly went awry.

Her: "What do you do for a living?"
Me: "I'm the editor of a weekly statewide farm newspaper."
Her: "Wow, that's unique. What's your background?"
Me: "I grew up on a dairy farm in southwest Wisconsin."
Her: "Really? Do you eat meat?"
Me: "Yes, of course I eat meat. I grew up on a farm."
Her: "How can you eat meat if you grew up on a farm? Don't you care about animals?"

Whoa. This is when I stepped back for a moment, quite shocked at her questions and began an inner conversation of "Seriously? She seriously just questioned how I could eat meat and my respect for animals? I don't think we'll be friends (my inner conversation wasn't quite that civil)." Anyway, I did my best to set aside the frustration her questions provoked and took a few moments to try to educate.

I expressed that I eat meat because I grew up on a farm. I eat meat because I understand where my food comes from, how it's raised and under what conditions it's raised. I've been there from the beginning of their lives to the end. I understand that livestock are not pets, though they often have names, too, and I care a great deal for them and their welfare. I understand that my family was comprised of farmers, not gardeners.

It's becoming more and more apparent to me that farming and almost everything involved with it is a highly mystical occupation for the outside world. The characters in my hazy neighborhood that think they have an understanding of it seem to liken it to gardening, which brings me back to a great LA Times article that has one of my favorite sentiments I've come across this year: Agriculture is a business. Farming without a financial motive is gardening.

http://www.latimes.com/features/food/la-fo-calcook6-2010jan06,0,6888223.story

Rushing to the potty

Currently in recovery mode from my marathon week at World Dairy Expo in Madison last week, I'm starting to succumb to the usual post-Expo cold that always seems to take hold after the long days and late nights and changing weather that week always holds (along with great friends and spectacular cows). One encounter from the week still has me giggling. As usual one of the evenings last week I was sequestered in the lonely back hallway, behind the media room in the Alliant Energy Center, putting together the following day's Expo Daily Edition - the daily paper Agri-View creates for World Dairy Expo. The show always attracts a couple thousand international visitors, which can make for some interesting encounters and discussions regardless. One of these visitors, a Japanese businessman, came barrelling up the stairwell I was working in, looking sweaty and distressed.

Japanese businessman: "All doors locked. Must find the potty."

Me, with a sympathetic look, because we've all been there: "Follow me, I'll show you." I efficiently whisk him through the back hall of the building, which included a "tricky" move through a two-way elevator, a shortcut I was quite proud of, to the bathroom. I point to the men's bathroom.

Me: "There you go."

Japanese businessman looks at me quizzically and at the door I'm pointing to. He puts his hand on the door and peeks inside skeptically. He looks back at me. "No, I need to get to the party."

Me, blushing: "Oh, PARTY! That's downstairs..." He sees the stairs and dashes away from the crazy American girl in relief, seeing his route back to the event he had somehow gotten locked out of. As soon as he seemed to be out of earshot I burst out laughing at my complete misunderstanding. Oy.