Excellent article by a woman who decides to witness the slaughter of her meals.

Was this what it was like to kill your dinner? Why didn't these taste good? And why did I feel like Lady Macbeth as I spent the night trying to wash this damn crab smell off my hands?

In the end, the crabs would be the only thing I actually killed. And they were the thing I felt worst about.

My summer of slaughters left me with mixed feelings. But not the feelings I'd imagined.

I thought I might emerge from it with a greater sense of entitlement and accomplishment. Like if you can face the realities of meat, you're allowed to eat it. But I felt no sense of entitlement. I felt more hesitance, a deeper reverence and a new conscientiousness.