the muslim meat market

I love doughnuts. And pizza. I dream of pizza. I also love French fries, all-dressed Ruffles chips, marshmallows in hot chocolate, creamy Havarti cheese, garlic shrimp, and chocolate chunk fudge cake with hot caramel topping. Mmm… caramel.

People have told me that these are forbidden foods.

One time on a trip to Montréal, the Hubby and I stood in line for 15 minutes waiting to order fries at a local chip shop. I got bored and left to get a closer look at a dancing street performer. The Hubby met me a few minutes later without fries in hand. Imagining he forgot his wallet, I asked what happened:

“They wouldn’t sell them to me.”
Seething. Islamophobia? “What.do.you.mean. they wouldn’t sell them to you?”
“She said they weren’t halal.”
Incredulous, “And..? So? I want my fries! What exactly wasn’t halal about them? Lard in the crispy coating? They deep-fry meat with the potatoes? Each French fry is injected with beef flavouring?”
“She didn’t say”
[insert halal expletive]

The server was a fellow Muslim who was looking out for our well being. Seeing the goatee-bearded Hubby and me in hijab, she made a value judgment and decided to save us from possible sin. Afterward, when I had calmed down and bought an ice cream instead, I recognized that her intentions were good. And we did appreciate her honesty. Normally we ask certain establishments if their food is halal, or permissible, and go by their word.

When I converted, I thought living a halal food lifestyle was going to be easy. I was a vegetarian, and the main Islamic dietary laws revolve around meat and meat processing. So I didn’t think that following this Qur’anic injunction was going to be an issue for me. No pork, no road kill, no blood, land animals have to be processed according to Islamic specifications, and no food blessed by any other than God’s name.

No problem – pass me a carrot.

But I got worried when I started receiving mass emails extolling the dangers of unlawful or questionable food. There’s rennet in cheese and yogurt – and you never know if it’s from a pig belly or a cow. There’s gelatin in marshmallows. Beef flavouring in fries. Microscopic levels of pig fat in food additives. Alcohol in doughnut glaze. Bacon flavour in all-dressed chips. Pepsi is pure evil in a can.

 

no more mister nice guy

It was a sleepy Saturday morning on June 1, 1994. I stood next to the kitchen wall phone, shuffling nervously, heart pounding up into my brain and holding my breath while begging a coworker to take my morning shift. After a long pause they said yes, and I nearly passed out.

Within the hour I was on the train to get to the HMV on Yonge Street in Toronto, and arrived early enough to be 10th in line. For hours complete strangers chatted, sang, and joked with each other. A few came dressed to the nines in top hats and walking sticks. I’m surprised I didn’t see a snake.

When the line began to move I stopped thinking rationally. This experience was happening to another person — I was only a spectator. We walked deeper into the store, right to the back where a black table was set up with posters and commemorative books. Two burly security guards in bright orange shirts stood behind it. I shuffled closer and grew sick with excitement. After an eternity, it was finally my turn.

He signed my CD album cover and told me that he rarely sees this particular album outside of Europe. I laughed and told him that I bought it while on vacation in Germany. I found all of his obscure albums there. He smiled and I told him it was my favourite. He thanked me for coming by and before leaving I offered him a hand shake. He took my outstretched hand in his warm, black leather glove, and in mid-shake, I turned it over and kissed it.

The security guards moved quickly to stop me, but he leaned back and grandly announced, “Oh, don’t worry. She’s worthy.”

I kissed Alice Cooper’s hand.