Anyone brought up in the era of 'mad cow disease' could be forgiven for thinking that I'm already dead.
I was born immediately after WW2, when food rationing was still in force, but, luckily, my people were sensible enough to realise that 'growing one's own' meant not being deprived. At the aprox 1 acre garden at our Surrey home, we had chickens, bantams, fruit, nuts, vegetables, and a wonderful gardener called Fuller who looked after it all.
Occasionally we would eat roast chicken; but this was rare. Usually the meat of choice was beef, which I presume was more plentiful, and probably mostly imported (we didn't keep cows).
On beef days, when my mother was preparing meals, she would always give me pieces of raw beef to eat; and I loved it. Even today, when ordering steak, my meat has to be served saignante. i.e. Waved in front of a 2000 degree furnace for half a second, then brought directly to the table. The exterior fraction of a millimetre should be well cooked, and the rest, much as it left the field.
Nowadays, post mad cows, people throw up their hands in horror at such things; but I'm still here, and (I like to think) no madder than the average carnivore.
