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97a more responsible system of meat production? Would weall eat as much meat? Would we eat meat at all?Today I have a business, the Portland Meat Collective, anda national nonprofit, the Good Meat Project, which offershands-on classes in things like humane chicken slaughter andwhole-hog butchery. We give our students knives and teachthem what it means to eat an entire animal, and then we sendthem home with the chops and roasts and skin and bonesthey have cut themselves. We teach them how to buy a whole,humanely raised pig from a local farmer, and offer advice onquestions like what kind of sausagegrinder to buy. After our classes, meatbecomes a special occasion for ourstudents, an accent to a meal.Not everyone gets it, though. “Itsounds so hard,” plenty of peoplesay. “Why would anyone do that?”I tell them that it is hard. Stand-ing in slaughterhouses is hard, as isdriving up and down I-5 with pig car-casses in my backseat, as is lookinga rabbit in the eye and then killing itfor dinner. I tell them that I’ve figuredout for myself—and for myself only—what each of these experiences means.I tell them this is my own quiet actof rebellion: rubbing salt into an en-tire pork leg from a pig I butcheredmyself and then hanging it in the garage to dry into prosciut-to. Or gathering a group of friends for a day of beef butchery.We have all decided we want to know. My daughter points atthe side of beef on the table and says something that soundslike “This?” Someday soon, I say, I will tell you, and thenyou will know too.who needs a trash bag?by Sloane CrosleyLiving in New York enables one to take credit for all sorts ofthings that are not one’s doing. You, personally, may not beplanting tulips in Central Park or befriending newcomersfrom around the world. And yet you can lay claim to thecity’s vibrancy and diversity from the comfort of your ownhome. Nor may you, personally, be doing all that much tosave the planet, and yet a New Yorker can haughtily claim thecarbon footprint of an infant. Effortless sustainability: It’sone of the great perks of city life, like being kosher by virtueof being a vegan. I, for instance, don’t own a car, because it’sexorbitant to keep one. I don’t have central air-conditioning,because my building isn’t equipped with it. I walk every-where because it’s good exercise. I recycle because it’s easy—and because I’m more than a little afraid of my super.There is, however, one concerted and unusual sacrifice Imake for the planet. I have never, in almost two decades ofNew York living, purchased a single trash bag. Sure, I’veacquired one or two of those humongous contractors’ bagsfor apartment moves, but aside from that? Nada. This beganas most habits begin for those young and new to a city—as ameasure of frugality. I was freshly out of college and making$23,000 a year as a literary agent’s assistant. I couldn’t affordto go out to dinner, so I subsisted on only the least expensivegroceries I could find. This resulted in an under-the-sink pile-up of supermarket bags, which I steadily reused for garbage.Why not? This is to say nothing of the drugstore bags withtheir sturdy handles, the shoe-repair bags with their endlessred thank yous, the translucent bodega bags fit only for eggsandwiches, or the black liquor-store bags meant to shield theircontents from view. Connoisseur’s tip: Go for hard alcohol;wine bags are too narrow for repurposing.By the time I could afford to takea trip to the grocery store withouthoming in on the thinnest wedge ofcheese, my bag routine had morphedinto something beyond necessity. Ithad become a personal challenge.I was determined to never throwout an empty plastic bag. I becamehyperefficient at reusing every lastone of them, expertly compactingboth bathroom and kitchen detritusuntil they formed plastic pillows toostuffed to tie. Boyfriends who borewitness to my habit looked at measkance, as if my behavior were on apar with swiping sugar packets froma diner counter. One fellow cringedwhen I scolded him for throwing outa perfectly good takeout bag with nothing in it. But I didn’tcare. I was on a personal mission. And as the years passedand America’s environmental impact proactivity ratchetedup, my behavior began to look like something else—an actof sustainability. Which meant it also became fashionable.Of course, living sustainably and living consistently aretwo different things. For every plastic bag hoarded and cordunplugged, a New Yorker tosses a cigarette butt or dropsa soda bottle in the wrong bin. None of us is perfect. I willfastidiously monitor my paper-towel usage only to take a layerof napkins as thick as the troposphere from Pret A Manger.I’ve also noticed that my conversations about sustainabilitytend to deploy the word in the colloquial negative. See also:“Working 80 hours a week is unsustainable” or “Datingsomeone in Los Angeles is unsustainable.”Which is all to say that we still have a long way to go whenit comes to normalizing sustainability, to making thinkingabout nature second nature. In the meantime, those of us whodo not own brick-and-mortar businesses or make decisionson behalf of large corporations are left to our own devices.It’s difficult to assess the net effect of individual effort, tobelieve one is making a dent. Which is why I am so tied, ifyou will, to my bags. So long as I avoid purchasing trashbags, I am cutting down on my contribution to the city’swaste in a measurable manner. Put it this way: If I were tohave purposefully acquired and thrown away an average oftwo trash bags a week for the past eighteen years, that wouldbe 1,872 bags. That’s 1,872 extra pieces of plastic that werenever dumped into landfills because of me. Why, just typingthat feels good. Borderline haughty. Though I suppose there’salways a better way. I could switch to paper.But one thing at a time.I WANTMY DAUGHTER,EVENTUALLY,TO K ILL A CHICK ENFOR DINNER.I WOULD LIK E HERTO EMBR ACE THECOMPLEXITIESI HAVE