Carne, mucho carne

I look down at my plate and forge a smile, "smells great," I say through clenched teeth. Nancy, my host mom has spent the past three hours slicing, sauteing, roasting, and stuffing the some type of very meaty dish. I had many clues that tonight's meal was extreme carne. First was the heavy smell wafting out the apartment door to before I'd even turned the key. Next, I saw a pool of blood and oil the soaking the bottom of a roasting pan on top of the oven. Last, I caught a glimpse of a large brown centerpiece on the dining room table as I came out of my room for water. I knew the moment of truth and taste would come soon, but I thought it might be a few minutes farther off.

But here I am, sitting in front of what I've just learned it steak stuffed with bacon or "carne machado", not having touched meat in over 12 years now, and I have no choice but to cut it up and put it inside my mouth. I go for the stuffing first, dates, onions, peppers, and yes, bacon. The flavor of bacon fills my mouth, and this familiar smell now takes on an actual taste in my mouth. Wierd. Intense. Rico. Muy muy rico. I have no choice but to go in for the meat of the matter next, no pun intended. I stab the steak with my knife and attempt to saw a piece off. This piece catches the knife, and soars across the table.

After a lesson in using a steak knife, I'm back in business, putting piece after pice of cooked flesh in my mouth until my plate is entirely empty. I don't know how, it all happened so fast, but somehow I managed to put down an entire steak, and not a small on at that, with bacon and a side of potatoes.

The strangest part about this first meat experience was how small of an event it was. My host parents had no idea about my vegetarian past, about the pervasive head chatter during this meal or the fact that that steak stuffed with bacon was down beside fried pigs ears on the list of meats I had even an inkling of a desire to try. It just kind of happened. I sat down, sucked it up and chowed down.

Immediately afterwards I felt good, even proud of myself for being flexible, thankful, and not dwelling upon where, when, how this meat was produced or other such things that could seriously ihibit my ability to swallow this fibrous delicacy. A few minutes later, this satisfaction was over come by a sharp side pain and a sudden need to lie down, but none the less the experience went well.

Since then I've had meat almost every night: fried chicken, meatballs, leftover steak and pot roast, and it's going fine. I don't particularly like the stuff, and surely will revert back to my vegetarian ways upon returning to the US. However, as the saying goes "when in Rome, do as the Romans do" and when in Argentina, eat as the Argentines do; and that means carne, mas carne, and mediolunas.