I don’t have a lot of hard and fast rules I live by. I try to be a good person. I believe kindness is essential and I try to act with that in mind whenever possible. I always stop to pet a dog. I will protect my teeth at all costs. I do not eat tubular meat.
I define tubular meat as any meat that has been shredded or comes from various parts of an animal, then is compressed and extruded. This means sausage, hot dogs, bologna, salami and the worst, in my opinion, brats (puke). I will eat pepperoni on a pizza. This is my only exception.
I have had a firm stance on tubular meat for decades. Even as a child, I was not big on hot dogs and bologna, despite Oscar Mayer’s snappy little jingles for both. I also have never liked sausage—much to my Granny’s dismay and countless attempts to convince me otherwise. It wasn’t until I was in my 20s that it dawned on me, many of the meats I did not like had the tubular thing in common. Upon realization of this, I immediately planted my flag in the anti-tubular meat hill. I have stood by it my entire adult life.
I think a lot of it is a texture thing. It is jacked up. I gag a little just thinking about it. This reminds me of a particularly vivid tubular meat story from college. A friend (who now happens to be my husband) and I were going on spring break in Florida. We were broke, so we packed a cooler full of cheap food for the road trip. Brett got a swinging deal on some chicken bologna and roughly five hours into the drive we proceeded to make sandwiches. About three bites in, the sandwich got crunchy. I tried to soldier on, but after another bite with crunch, I looked at Brett and asked him if his chicken bologna was making noise too. He confirmed that there did seem to be a little something extra going on in the sandwich. We concluded it was chicken beaks and did not take another bite of that damn bologna. We still talk about the beak bologna. I honestly don’t think either of us has had bologna since.
When I tell people I have a strict tubular meat policy, I usually get a laugh out of my phrasing at first. Then they start running down the list and I confirm, I do not, indeed, eat any of that shit. We lived in Wisconsin very briefly. The folks up there were most puzzled by my aversion. During this brief stint, I was an account executive at an ad agency. One of the accounts I inherited was a major producer of tubular meat. I told the agency up front, if there was ever going to be an instance where I was expected to eat any of their products, they needed to remove me from the account immediately. It was not going to happen. I traded accounts with another person.
The one area where I have not been able to remove tubular meat from my life is at sporting events. My daughter has always played sports and that means we have had to put in our time in the concession stand. It was the worst in Wisconsin where she played ice hockey. I was always put on brat duty. Let me tell you, nothing clings to your clothes and hair like the smell of spinning brats. I would start stripping in the driveway (regardless of the temperature) and go straight to the shower. It took every ounce of restraint I had not to burn my clothes. When compared to the stench of a brat, a wiener at a soccer game is pretty mild.
The truth is, I eat very little meat in general. My daughter is a vegetarian. I try to support her choice and cook for her. I also know it is healthier and heart problems run in my family. So, I’m really doing myself a favor by not eating fatty meat with a suspect origin. Over the years, I have even convinced myself it is for health reasons. However, if I’m being really honest, it just grosses me the fuck out.
Angela Traver
What is this blog about? Well, it's a general blog, but it is also a very specific blog. If you get that reference, you get a gold star! I have been a public relations professional and writer of press releases for more than 20 years—primarily in the booze biz. I decided to do some writing for fun and embrace the humor that gets me through most days. Hopefully it will make you chuckle—or at least smile. I’m a certified crazy magnet, and more than a little nutty myself, so buckle up. Also, I have two vices—profanity and red wine/whiskey. You’ve been warned. It should also be noted, that I’m a HUGE Bob & Sheri fan. I’ve been a listener for more than 20 years. This opportunity is a dream come true and it may have made me cry. That being said, I cry at everything. If you are into booze, dogs, food and/or knitting, hit me up on Instagram, Facebook or Twitter (although I’m terrible at Twitter and it scares me) @kyspiritsgal. You can also find all my previous blog posts at www.kyspiritsgal.com.
