Do you walk around with a constant sense of guilt, or is it just me? I don’t know if it’s attributed to my raising, genetics, or hearing the Old Testament read aloud too many times. If I have a bad day, I feel guilty for feeling bad. What reasons have I to be terrible? If life continually comes up roses, there’s this nagging voice saying that I’m winning only because someone else is losing. There is seemingly no guilt-free awesomeness to be had.

In a first for us Chapmans, there are two shower heads in our master bath. When we initially moved in, it didn’t even dawn on me that the two could be pointed toward one person standing between them. I tried double blasting, and had a lovely time, but really felt it was too indulgent for daily use. So, only on Saturdays, I’ll treat myself to an awesome double shower. Then I’ll spend a few solemn moments thinking about all the folks in the world who have no access to clean, running water.

It should come as no surprise then that my lifelong infatuation with food has seen regular periods of introspection. My intake will start to feel overly indulgent and I’ll naturally want a sweeping change in response. People around me will kindly play along as I attempt to appease my soul with yet another more thoughtful approach to eating. Fueled by the rallying cry of yet another documentary on our challenged foodways, I’ll make a declaration that things are changing henceforth. How can I ever go back knowing what I know now?

Prior to sharing meals with our children, Allison enthusiastically joined me in juicing after watching Fat, Sick & Nearly Dead. We gave middle fingers to processed foods for one or two meals a day. I would zoom my Mini Cooper down to Costco every week and spend four hundred dollars on crates of produce we could hopefully squeeze a few quarts from. Our kitchen was sticky all over. Flies abounded. Our growling tummies would interrupt the quiet tranquility of our pre-parental bliss while friends enjoyed their fun brunches. That $300 juicer was quickly offloaded.

My attempts at plain old vegetarianism were much more sustainable. The first stint was motivated by a Netflix documentary showing all of us dum-dums how we’ve been poisoning ourselves this whole time with meat-based diets. The scene that still stays with me is a visual of how much better the blood flow is (allegedly) to one’s genitals at night without the added viscosity from all that animal fat.

Anyway, that’s all I needed. Sign me and little Chappy up. Every time I watched some poor soul engrossed in a greasy burger, my arteries just felt so flippin’ clean. I’d smugly ruminate on bland mouthfuls of vegetables knowing I was beautiful on the inside. Eyes of passing animals sparkled with gratitude as I enjoyed Chipotle burritos full of whatever a sofrita is.

Next, it came to me that there is no better way to save the planet than by simply not eating meals. Call it intermittent fasting if you will, but it was really just a fancy way to say I skipped breakfast entirely. Unsure if it was really meant to be done every day, I persisted. I was too busy enjoying how pointy my cheeks looked on zoom calls. There was, however, the nagging problem of not getting enough calories to maintain an active lifestyle. What little butt I possessed nearly disappeared. I was tired and generally sad. My workouts lacked ambition.

In my most recent diet makeover, I decided to go pescatarian. I had to explain this to quite a few people from my high horse, so in case you don’t know that’s eating only fish as far as animals go. My reasoning being that I have indeed milked a cow, collected eggs, and caught seafood that I have then consumed. At no time have I personally slaughtered a cow, pig, goat, or chicken. Yet I have eaten thousands. That’s an out of balance equation in this head of mine. Instead of going on a barnyard killing spree, I decided to cook myself a healthy plate of fish instead of whatever the girls were getting each night.

On the plus side, I did get much better at serving up tasty sea creatures. We usually only eat seafood in view of where it came from, at least since I ruined every type of fish you can think of in my early kitchen days. Don’t ever ask Allison about the time I tried slow smoking scallops.

I had a decent run and made it three months as a pescatarian. But once again my will power faltered. For starters, we were spending an obscene pile of cash on something that invites rapid decay.

Regardless of where I bought our seafood from (and how much I spent), there was always a persistent gamble on the fishy element crashing our dinner party. I tried all kinds of marinades, milk baths, defrosting protocols and preparations. But if there were two fillets, the one with a surprise bite of nasty was inevitably gonna end up on Allison’s plate. These moments did not serve to enhance my marriage. Before you could say microplastics, I saw where this was headed.

Some would say all of these were doomed operations from the start. After all, there’s a prominent sign hanging in my basement (Chappy’s Pub) featuring a flying pig and an inscription that reads “The Meat Waits for Nobody.” But rather than treat each experiment as a failure, I appreciate the perspectives they brought. The meat, and all of your food, should be savored and treated with dignity. The times of going without will help you relish those moments of plenty.

Change is hard, and it has gotten so tough to know if you are even making the right choices for your fellow earth inhabitants when browsing the supermarket. But I do know this: Taking a second to honor where your food comes from and its journey to the plate would help every single person. The mindless distance of modern living has fooled us into thinking we can have exactly what we want when we want it without consequence. Maybe there should be a tinge of guilt when those grapes from Peru spoil untouched in your refrigerator.

It’s warming up outside. Throw some seeds in the dirt and grow your own food instead of relying on planes, trains and automobiles to bring it to you. Find a local farmer or rancher who will familiarize you with the good, local and seasonal stuff. If you only eat the choices of steaks, check out a butcher’s cut sheet and see how much cow is leftover. A little guilt and perspective might help us all to truly enjoy what we are blessed to have on our plates.

And if you are coming over for dinner, best be on time. The meat waits for nobody.