Hosanna in the highest,"" the church choir bellows, their praise echoing throughout the high ceilings of the church. As a child I would have gladly joined in this prayer, tweaking the phrasing just a bit to make it more sacred and meaningful.
""Blessed is he who comes in the name of the Lord, LASAGNA in the highest!!!!!"" My stomach grumbled. ""LASAGNA in the highest."" This was my single most favorite church song. Ever. It's like the ""Hey Jude"" of spiritual hymns, satisfying my hunger for a liturgical song I could finally understand.
I've always associated religion with food. Church meant tasting red wine and cardboard paper wafers, which I would steal and eat by the handful when I was an altar sever. Christmas meant a classy dinner with tiny cocktail hot dogs, Easter meant honey-baked ham and rolls with a lamb-shaped butter cut-out, which I gladly cut into while bellowing a scratchy ""BAAAAAA"" at the rest of the adult table.
While I took the words, ""eat, pray, love"" to a new level, pairing up sacraments and holidays with certain foods, the only thing that stood in my way was Lent, with at least eight days in which the consumption of meat is sinful.
Despite 18 years of Catholic schooling, I have yet to successfully give up eating meat on Ash Wednesday or any forbidden Fridays during Lent. Meat is my religion—in the name of the father, son and the holy cheeseburger. My very soul can be found in between the buns of a thick, greasy cheeseburger, on the bones of happy, deep-fried little chicken wings and on a perfect cheese-to-turkey ratio sandwich. Dear white and red meat, make me a channel of your peace. Amen.
But perhaps the thing I dislike most about Lent is its inextricable connection to dieting, a relation I discovered during my all-girls high school experience, where any excuse not to eat was delightfully repeated.
""Would you like a cookie?"" I'd ask girls at lunch, just to torture them.
"" No thanks,"" they'd say munching on carrot sticks and gum. ""I can't. I'm starving myself for the Lord. Amen.""
""Suit yourself,"" I'd say, proceeding to make out with a cookie the size of my face, the girls' mouths open with envy.
""Care for a bite of my Bosco Stick?"" I'd offer the next day, cheesy goodness oozing grease onto the Styrofoam plates.
""I gave up solid food for Lent, you know, to show my faith,"" the true believers replied, sipping on wheat grass smoothies, their hands shaking as they brought the glasses to their mouths. These were the same girls who donned spray-tanned legs, blue eyeshadow and plaid skirts rolled up to reveal half -moon butt cheeks. They'd meet their boyfriends after school and find ways to forget they were hungry and holy.
I went home and made myself an after-school snack, writing my name on crackers with cheez whiz, just an hour before my mom made a steak dinner. On a Friday. Having a mom who would rather serve meat against God's wishes than throw out a perfectly good skirt steak was a blessing I was always thankful for. When I prayed, I prayed for her lack of oversight.
I still struggle with the concept of giving up anything that I derive great pleasure from, which explains why I have never made a single Lent-y promise with true resolve and determination. Just days after Lent begins, I find myself dipping my bare hand into the spreadable cheese container after swearing off queso for the next 40 days.
But it's not just food I have trouble tearing myself away from: promising to be sunnier and more cheery, I resume my habit of calling people I don't know in the grocery store ""assholes"" when they turn a corner too sharply. After vowing to become more organized, I realize my dresser is bloated with unfolded clothes, oozing out from half-open drawers, with pens, papers and water bottles scattered throughout the rest of my room.
Changing a habit is hard, especially when it comes to food. So this Lent, whenever I need strength, I will turn to the nearest refrigerator and sing my special little prayer, ""LASAGNA in the highest.""
Should Ashley remain a meat-eating sinner? E-mail her spiritual advice at aaspencer@wisc.edu.
