“Come, all of you who claim mortality should look on meats as poison to your bodies—unholy fuel to feed unholy fires. Here are the fruits of life—of field and orchard: apples that sway their branches to the ground, ripe, ripe are they, as grapes that crowd the vine, the rich soil yielding tender roots and grasses, which, placed above a fire, are yours to taste, nor is there lack of milk and flowing honey to make a feast that smells of flowering thyme. Yours are the gifts of earth that spends her riches without the taint of butchery and blood.” – Ovid: The Metamorphoses, trans. Horace Gregory