
The Jehovah's Witnesses (JW) organization dates back to the late 19th century, when Charles Taze Russell set up a breakaway sect of the Christian Congregationalist church in Pennsylvania. It's an extremist religion, with "distinctive" beliefs and teachings. Although mostly harmless (there are no JW suicide bombers for example), the religion has many of the characteristics of a cult, and has been accused of brainwashing its followers.
I managed to avoid becoming a Christian automaton, but that didn't stop me from being the one thing every school child dreads: different. As the sole Witness in my school, I alone remained in my seat as everyone else filed out for the morning religious assembly which, conducted along Church of England lines, was akin to satanic ritual in the eyes of JWs.
My classmates were endlessly curious as to why I didn't celebrate Christmas, Easter or my birthday, but I found it was best to avoid getting into details about my beliefs. It was difficult to remain popular, or indeed healthy, and explain that I was going to live forever in an earthly paradise while the best they could hope for was a prolonged skinny dip in the lake of fire in Hades.
Looking back, eternal life in return for a enduring a few hours a week of sermonizing and hymn singing in the prefabricated gloom of the local Kingdom Hall seems like a pretty good deal. But in 1975, the year JW's had scheduled for God's Kingdom to come, I was only ten years old -- and not quite ready for such a major change in circumstance. Besides the sheer inconvenience that Armageddon was bound to cause, there was the small matter of being one David Carradine short of a complete set of "Kung Fu" bubblegum cards, and a new Led Zeppelin album to look forward to.
My mother's preparations for the impending apocalypse weren't much more advanced than my own. They consisted entirely of filling a cupboard in the living room with tinned York Ham and baked beans. The plan appeared to be that, while God was busy removing wickedness and suffering from the face of the planet, and humanity perished all around us, we would have and a nice supper of cold meat and Heinz’s finest to see us through.
Jehovah's Witnesses have many bizarre beliefs, but their most controversial teaching is that "taking blood into body through mouth or veins violates God's laws." For me, that simply meant that the meat I ate as a child had to be well done. No blood could ooze onto my plate for fear of incurring the wrath of the almighty and scotching my chances of entering the new Eden.
It also meant that it was not until my 20's that I first tasted black pudding. Hardly an enormous sacrifice, especially when compared to a less fortunate member of my local congregation. Her family's refusal to allow her a transfusion during the emergency surgery that followed a car accident had rather more dreadful consequences than a boudin noir-free diet, the most serious of which was death.
It was perhaps this incident above all that turned me off not only Jehovah's Witnesses, but the idea of organized religion itself. As I approached my mid-teens, the rules that governed my existence as a JW became intolerable. As much as I tried, I could make no sense of the restrictions placed upon me, and I simply rejected them all. I went from faithful to faithless overnight.
Don't steal, kill or shag your next door neighbour's wife I can live with (you should see my next door neighbours wife), in fact I'm broadly in agreement with Christian values as a moral code by which to live one’s life. But the restrictions on diet imposed by the world's religions are unfathomable to me. Is it really logical to imagine that an all-powerful being that regularly ignores genocide, famine and plague could care a stuff about what we put in our mouths? If history tells us anything, it's that if there is a deity up there, non-interventionism is its by-word.
If we accept that God created the world, and that he put all creatures on the earth for a purpose, it doesn't take a genius to work out what the majority of the animal kingdom is for. Giraffes I grant you are a bit of a puzzle, but a pig is an altogether more straightforward matter. Can you ride it, plough a field with it, put it your lap and stroke it? No, you can't. Can you ram a spit up its arse, out through its mouth and roast it over an open fire? Why, it appears to be just the right size!
Then there's cattle. Hmm, seems to be rather a lot of them doesn't there? We've put some of the stupid ugly brutes to work, but what can we possibly do with all the rest? Seems such a waste to have them just standing around. Well, we could try tanning their hides, I suppose, but then what would we do with all that left over flesh? I think I'll have a plate of chips and bearnaise sauce and think about it.
So what could possibly be the cause of this petty-mindedness in the omnipotent one? Revenge for nailing his only begotten son to a piece of wood, perhaps? Or maybe he derives some sort of twisted pleasure from watching humanity wrestle with the conflict between their appetites and their beliefs. After all, everyone needs a hobby, especially if you are a being without beginning or end stuck in eternity (which would explain why Ken Barlow is a druid in his spare time).
A more likely explanation for the existence of dietary restrictions is that they are purely a construct of religion, a simple way to help delineate one faith from another. Despite their apparent random nature, they enable followers to demonstrate their faith, in a practical way. on a daily basis, to advertise their devoutness to others and to reinforce it in themselves.
As an agnostic, I choose to worship at the church of gastronomy. As luck would have it, it has no restrictions on what I can consume. I celebrate the glory of creation by eating as much of it as I possibly can, in all its varied delights. My church is broad, as are its people. Despite that, there is room for everyone; all creeds, colours and cooking abilities. Our bible is the cookbook -- any cookbook (except of course those with the words "Ainsley Harriot" written across the front) -- and every recipe is a revelation. When we cook, we give praise to the Gods of nourishment, and when we eat, we commune with the eternal. Pass the bacon sarnies and let us pray.
(We're thrilled to see a new Mashed column from Andy. It was a mainstay of the old Daily Gullet. Be sure to check out previous entries here. -- the Editors)
Andy Lynes is a freelance food writer based in Brighton, England. His work appears in Restaurant magazine, Caterer and Hotelkeeper, olive magazine, Square Meal Trade Brief and other publications. His first restaurant review for The Guardian newspaper will appear in August.
Andy sits on the committee of the UK's Guild of Food Writers and edits its newsletter. Andy was a founding affiliate of eGullet.org and is a former Dean of the eGCI. He is currently the UK forum host and sits on the editorial board of the Daily Gullet.
Andy lives in Brighton with his wife Gill, children George (12) and Alice (7) and Lulu the German Shorthaired Pointer.










