I always feel guilty when I cook lamb. At the heart of it, it's a moral dilemma: I loathe the image of helpless lambs being dragged to the slaughter, but by the same token, I truly adore the taste of lamb. Naturally, my devotion to gastronomic ventures takes precedent and I capitulate, casting guilt aside for an hour to satisfy my belly.

Tonight I combined ground lamb with garlic, minced red onion, an egg, multiple spices, fresh feta preserved in some liquid (those wacky Greeks), salt, pepper and a shot of Tabasco. I shaped these into meat patties and grilled them until they were firm and tender. Served over a spinach salad with a few dashes of balsamic vinegar, it was delicious. Oh the guilt, the guilt!

I blame my long time friend and eventual college room mate, Dak, for this devotion to the offspring of the ewe. Her father, a charming and sophisticated man named Stanley, owned the "it" restaurant in Fresno in the 1970s, an upscale Armenian eatery called Stanley's. When we were teenagers out on the town on a Saturday night, we would crash Stanley's for a bite to eat. Sneaking in through the kitchen. we'd load up take out containers with steak cut potatoes, lamb shish kabob, stuffed grape leaves, lavosh and pilaf. It was fresh and savory and delicious. We rarely went out for traditional fast food those days--we were already cultivating a more sophisticated palate.

When we went to college, Dak and I roomed together in a cottage behind a big house in Berkeley. The rent was reasonable and the landlord was charming if not benevolent. We both worked every spare hour between our college courses, but we were both still poor, trying to keep on top of basic living expenses and college tuition fees. It was always a treat when Stanley would come to visit. Those were special days. By the time we were in college, Stanley had sold his legendary restaurant and had become a consultant to the American Lamb Council. In his capacity, he traveled quite a bit, extolling the virtues of lamb. He was The Lamb Shill. When he came to visit us, he would bring us 20 pounds of various cuts of lamb, along with bags of his mother's homemade seeded challah bread and wrapped grape leaves. This bounty went into the freezer and kept us happily fed for months.

I remember one visit from Stanley where he brought us the usual bounty of provisions and a poster. He actually asked us to put the poster up and we did, in the kitchen. The poster had a large illustration of a lamb in the foreground with a ewe standing majestically in the background. The lamb was smiling with it's mouth open, as if captured in half bleat. The caption said, "Everyone Loves Lamb! Pick Up Some Today!" I can see it still. It did not stop us from cooking the lamb stored in our freezer, but I will admit it made me uneasy. It's hard not to equate the delicious meat cooked in fifty different ways with the white fuzzy ears and pink nose and ears gazing at me from artwork on the wall.

Obviously, it did not deter me, these many years later. Lamb is still one of those flavors that I favor most highly.