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Just after I’d finished making a big ol’ pot of veal ragout, my father and stepmother arrived in Baton Rouge and announced their swearing off of all cruelty foods. This (of course) included veal.

There was also fois gras.

“It makes us sick,” they said, “to think that somebody would force feed a duck!”

I’d heard this before, but this time around, they’d also decided to swear off chickens, unless they were farm raised. Slaves to anything said on Oprah or Dateline NBC, they’d apparently watched something the night before their arrival that had triggered this latest identity shift.

“Oh yeah,” said my stepmother, “and no more eggs, either, unless they’re farm raised too.”

As if to defend their position, they also told me about a new corporate decision on the part of Whole Foods to stop selling stone crabs, because of the heinous act of ripping off one of the crab’s claws. Funny, I thought the fact that the crabs were tossed back and allowed to regrow their claws made them a poster dish for animal activists.

I let them talk. This was coming from a twosome that makes a weekend ritual out of rib eyes, eats ribs for every high summer holiday and thought I was out of my gourd for flirting with vegetarianism in college. Oh, and let’s not forget their love of fishing – which seems to me to be particularly bereft of compassion. Ever seen a fish on a line gasping for air?

I love animals, but my spiritual barometer for which ones I should and shouldn’t eat doesn’t come from Dateline. It comes from the queen of joie de vivre, the maven of sampling little bits of everything, including veal medallions, foie gras with toast and steamed lobster: Julia Child. Nobody slapped a chicken around better.

Eat on.