I am the worst kind of person in the world, one with ideals but no follow-through, a man with firm beliefs which I pretty much consistently fail to put into application. I mean, I get most of the easy ones right, like not killing people or stealing from orphans, but I’ll also admit that not too many opportunities have arisen.

Where my failings are most glaring and obvious are in the realm of killing and consuming other animals. I, myself, have no desire to die. Oh, you can strut around claiming you have no such fear, and hell, you might even be part of the minority that claims not to fear death and is honest about it, but I’ve never understood why that constitutes grounds for bragging rights. I don’t want to die. I’ve got too much shit to do. Makes perfect sense.

In that same light, I’m not too keen on killing other things. I’ve made half assed attempts at being a vegetarian for the past two years, all resulting in failure. Even my attempts to only eat certain types of meat eventually stall. Admittedly, I’ve eaten LESS chicken since I decided chicken treatment in the United States was inhumane, but not NO chicken, and not only free range chicken, either.

Even so, it’s a serious concern to me. I mean, when it comes to the morality of killing other animals for food, it depends largely on the overall treatment of the creature. I figure if we’re going to demand that something else make that sacrifice for us then the least we can do is honor it in life before we kill and devour it. You take a deer that’s lived a majority of its life and then you wrestle the thing to the ground and puncture its throat, well, I don’t have such a problem with that. It lived well and died, by my standards, equally well. That’s just the way things work. One life form kills another to survive. But that doesn’t mean we have to breed them exclusively for it, like the chickens. I mean, those poor sad creatures are born, often too awkward to even walk properly, fed to best, quickest size, stuffed in tiny tiny wire cages and then shuttled off to an area where, not even a year into life, their last memories are of waiting to be killed and dismembered alongside their comrades. It just ain’t right. So I’m trying to cut down on the chicken and stick to free range.

In the same way light I consider a lot of specialized meats, like veal, to be absolutely horrific. You don’t have to do that to eat, period. Veal’s not THAT good to begin with and it sure as hell isn’t worth treating a young animal like that. I mean, seriously people.

So you can imagine my attitude towards foie gras. In case you don’t know, foie gras is goose or duck liver taken right after said goose or duck is force fed (and I mean FORCE fed, like held down and stuffed) to death with rich foods. The liver is overworked until it fails, the bird dies, then you eat its liver. Who are the sick fuckers to even think of this shit? I mean, it’s supposed to be good, REALLY good, but what’s the limit, exactly? When do we decide that other life forms are worth treating with at least a modicum of respect, as in, to the degree that we at least don’t torture them horribly before we kill them, all for a new taste sensation.

Well, I’ll admit, even with all these moral misgivings, I’ve always wanted to try foie gras, just to see how it tastes. I’m a glutton to begin with. And they’d already flown it in, and it’s a great honor for Larry to be hosting AND cooking for me, and I’m just not going to be rude and snub the liver. The dinner became the perfect excuse to try something I’d always had compunctions against without feeling too guilty.. I could feign moral conflict and indulge myself, all the while saying, "Oh but normally I’d NEVER do this sort of thing."

We arrived at dinner Wednesday evening, and what a dinner it was. We began with a small but most excellent cheese and olive selection, with a little humus, crackers, champagne and these absolutely delicious little peas that were baked or something. Crunchy and spicy, oh my stars were they tasty, especially right alongside the cheese.

Of course, I’m a big freaking cheese fan as it is, but since I’ve been saving for the trip, I haven’t been able to indulge that much, so this is heaven for me. I even thought to myself, during one period of really sad rationalization attempts, "You see? No meat here! All good clean dont-have-to-kill-things products!" Ah, how we attempt to fool ourselves.

We are seated, conversation is simple and to the point, and Larry and Andrea serve the first course, sautéed figs, bread, a light lettuce salad with a sweet dressing, and the foie gras. I stare. I prepare. I brace. I bite. It’s that good. It’s a unique texture. It’s no texture. The first friction-less food! It literally just comes apart in your mouth, flooding it with flavor. Oh my goodness, is it good. It’s wrong, but such a delicious wrongness. Normally, I’d never. Never ever. Some of the table aren’t as taken as I am, which is fine because it means more for me. Hey, can’t let the horribly mistreated duck die in vain, right? All liver must be consumed, and I’m willing to take that weight upon my shoulders. I will eat the foie gras that we will not be tainted with the dishonor of not even having had fnished the entire thing.

The conversation grows more light-hearted and disorganized at the hands of a delicious German dessert wine. The main course is presented, crab cakes, shrimp, a mustard sauce, an excellent pepper slaw and pasta salad. It’s all good, but oh the crab cakes. Oh oh oh oh oh, the crab cakes. Thoughts of foie gras are lost in the bliss that is the cake made of crab. A super dry white compliments this. Of course, now I have to feel sad about RAPING OUR OCEANS, but immediate pleasure often entirely drowns out abstract ethical issues.

And it’s over half vegetarian. I figure only about 35 animals had to die to feed us that night, and most of those were shrimp. Tasty shrimp. Succulent shrimp. I mean, don’t get me wrong, the slaw was an interesting and playful take on that classic dish, and the peppers are, for my money, what slaw really wants, but let’s face it, I’m a carnivore. I think fond thoughts of smashing that fleeing little crab open with a rock tied to a stick and I’m basking in my morally impure, base animal state. I have reverted entirely. I am sick, tainted, a beast, not a man. I will remain forever banished from the heavens.

Afterwards comes the jokes and the speeches, the conversation devoted to the theme of the dinner, and then dessert, cheesecake, ice cream and strawberry sauce. Heavenly. By now I think most people are in that stage of almost tipsy tempered by exquisite fullness, that after food glow that confuses the senses and trips up the alcohol.

You really have to get cheesecake just right for me these days. I’ve made every kind of cheesecake known to man and of every quality. I’ve made frozen gelatin cheesecakes that are the single best thing you’ll ever eat and baked New York cheesecakes that offend the senses. I’ve had aged cheesecake, fresh cheesecake, cracked and chocolate, cheesecake with sherry sauce, blueberry cheesecake, key lime cheesecake, cheesecake in a pie crust, cheesecake in no crust, custard cheesecake, unfinished cheesecake, you get the picture. I’ve had too much cheesecake and as a result I’ve gotten damned picky about it. This was darn fine cheesecake. Andrea, bless her, gave me a few slices to take home and they were exquisite.

The speeches were mostly funny. I never did get used to being called the ‘Guest of Honor’ and the card made me sad in its appropriateness. The rain continues to slap gently against the roof and driveway, and suddenly, amidst the warmth and humor and friendship and comfort, I feel an apprehension come over me.

Suddenly, the lights flicker. Then they go out entirely. A breeze blasts across the table and a wine glass overturns. Everyone gives a small start or exclamation of surprise, and then before us manifests this horrid apparition, this ghastly and indescribable entity, glowing a sickly green color with strange tendrils of ectoplasm slowly undulating around it’s sickly and sticky form.

It howls at us mercilessly as we cower in our seats, unable to move out of fear. Slowly, almost imperceptibly, one of the tentacles of dripping energy slides down to the tables and slowly explores one of the empty plates. What can only serve as the being’s eyes or equivalent scans maliciously over each member of the dinner party.

Finally, Larry manages to build up the courage to speak. ‘What....what are you?" he manages to squeak out, his voice thin and parched.

"I......am......the......duck......", whispers the hideous form in a voice that sounds like one of Donald’s nephews being strangled by piano wire.

"Oh fuck," I think to myself, "I knew this was going to happen."