Soul searching

I think I’ve given myself cheesecake and chocolate poisoning.

Every Easter Sunday my mother’s extended family gathers for a shared lunch and, as always, I was on dessert duty. A few days beforehand I spotted some quinces in my local greengrocer's and decided to utilise them in my creation.

What I like about quinces is their secret surprise. For long, slow cooking turns their inedible, rock-hard, tannic white flesh into a red-pink delight. I created a cheesecake topped with chunks of roasted, spiced quince and a layer of jelly made by setting the quince juice.

To be on the safe side, I made two cheesecakes – one for Sunday’s lunch and a test one that my family ate the evening before. It was too rich for Rory, and he only managed half a piece. Don ate one piece and declared himself done. Kieran and I guzzled our slices and promptly dispatched the leftovers.

I still felt nauseous when I awoke yesterday morning.

Undeterred, I pigged out big time at the family lunch (the quince cheesecake was a hit) and went on to round off this morning’s wholegrain toast breakfast with a large milk chocolate Easter egg. I couldn’t quite manage the chocolate buttons in that sitting but their siren call becons…

Mustering some will power to offset the paucity of won’t power, I headed out in a futile attempt to walk off my excesses.

As I was jaunting along, thinking about what I’d write in this blog, I noticed a man up ahead kick at a little pile on the footpath. With a sinking heart, I approached to discover a starling that had been hit by a car. It was conscious but clearly mortally wounded, presenting me with a ghastly dilemma.

Should I walk on and leave it lying in the pouring rain – waiting who knows how long for nature to take its course? Or should I play God and put it out of its misery?

I stood there a while, hoping someone would come along and decide for me. But nobody did. The bird, twitching what little it could still move, looked up at me, fear and resignation in its eyes.

I knew what I had to do and told the bird I was sorry. Mustering the full force of the weekend’s cheesecake and Easter eggs behind me, I stomped on its head. It wouldn’t stop twitching. Even though I knew it must be dead, doubt remained over whether I’d made a clean kill. So I stomped again…and again. Still it twitched.

As I trudged home, weeping, I contemplated my deed’s brutal kindness.

It is difficult to reconcile my despair with the fact that I happily eat meat most days. In the end up I figured that there isn’t really an answer and that my response has been quintessentially human in nature: contradictory, compassionate, conscious, ego-centric.

I feel emotionally drained and writing this blog hasn’t been as cathartic as I‘d hoped. But life goes on and now it’s time to go and do some housework. Later I plan to curl up with the latest Cuisine Magazine. But I think I’ll give the chicken recipes a miss.