Where's the Beef?

Today I joined two bus loads of kids and a handful of other awesome parent volunteers to spend four hours at the Experimental Farm touring the barns, the grounds, the museum and the playground. It was hectic and wet and fun and educational. And it wasn't so tough corralling the kids this time (compared to a nightmare trip to the Science & Tech Museum last year). This trip matched the JKs with their Grade 5 reading buddies and the SKs with their Grade 6 buddies. Sam adores his buddy, David, and the feeling seems to be mutual: they often walked hand in hand through the exhibits. Nice.

When we reached the cow barn, Brynn the Tour Guide explained quite matter-of-factly that the two-day-old calves we were all ohhing and ahhing over had just been separated from their mama cows and would spend about six months in a special section of the barn, where kids could pet them and watch them grow. After that, they'd be transported to a feed lot where they'd spend another six months eating like it was their job. I knew where this was going, and wondered how Sam would react to the Story of Beef. He's heard it before, of course, but not while looking into the dewy eyes of baby Claudette standing there on her shaky limbs and ingratiating herself to Sam by trying to eat his Gap hoodie.

So Brynn gets to the part where the cows are hauled off to the slaughterhouse and Sam spins around to ask "Do we kill them?" Well, not "we" exactly, but I suppose we're complicit in the supply-and-demand equation, so I say "Yes, they are born to be food. Farms grow all kinds of food, including animal food." The kids around us are rhyming off all manner of meaty goodness to show Brynn that they know their cows: hamburgers! steaks! angus beef! teriyaki! souvlaki! I'm watching my son for signs of burgeoning vegetarianism, thinking "Here we go. The boy who won't kill an ant is putting two and moo together in a whole new way. It's going to be soy from here on in..." Sam leans against the pen to speak softly to the baby calf, and I have to strain to hear the words over the din. "I love you, " he whispers and I wince a little, touched by his tender heart—until he finishes his sentence: "I love to eat you. You're so tasty!"

See you soon, Claudette.