My path towards eating meat again, after ten years of vegetarianism, was not a subtle one. The summer it happened, blood sausage—amongst other delights like whole crucified goats, pig’s heads coated in clay and buried in underground fires, and giant purple octopuses—commonly appeared on the dinner table. I was in the middle of nowhere with a bunch of strangers (ok, 20 minutes outside of Avignon, but I can’t drive!), and most of those strangers were chefs or restaurateurs or wine people or something like that. They were also all of either French or Argentine extraction. Not eating meat wasn’t really an option. So it began. And some months after returning home, I began teaching myself to make sausages, with visions...