I don’t call myself a vegetarian. Most often, I describe myself as a “99 percent vegetarian,” leaving the door to animal food adventures cracked just a tiny bit open. Why that door has to be open just a crack, I can’t easily explain. It could be that, over time, I’ve grown reluctant to accept labels or to play by the rules. After a lifetime of creating self-imposed rules, only to later break them, I accept more easily now that flexibility is usually a good thing.

So, I’m a person who eats a mostly plant-based diet, but keeps my options open. I can live with the lack of a clear label. Structure without hard edges.

Vegetables, a few spices and my favorite knife packed, I headed north on Friday for an idyllic long weekend in Vermont’s Northeast Kingdom. Home to the “perfect farmstand,” and lots of delicious locally produced foods like farmstead cheeses, artisan breads, tofu, butter and even beer. With a working farm over every hill, it’s easy to eat well in this richly agrarian part of Vermont.

Eating well took on a new meaning this weekend, because I was invited to my first pig roast. A big deal for an “almost” vegetarian.

I’d received an invitation from a farmer/author friend to his family’s annual harvest celebration. The pig, of course, was to be one of his own, raised and fattened on the farm, foraging in the brush and enjoying twice daily meals of organic milk (waste milk from neighboring dairies) and grain. These pigs are well cared for and have good lives. The meat they provide is wholesome, organic and nutrient rich. The one to be roasted would have been killed in the most respectful way possible, right there on the farm where it had been raised. I was sure that this would be exceptional pork.

What I wasn’t so sure about was whether I’d actually eat it.

I’ve chosen a mostly plant-based diet for health reasons and as a conscious rejection of an unhealthy industrialized food system. Although it’s getting easier all the time to find organic, locally raised meats and poultry, I’ve shifted my attentions elsewhere, to vegetables. I haven’t missed having meat in my diet and have fallen into a routine of eating a little bit of meat or fish about twice a year, for very special occasions.

This pig roast was certain to be such a special occasion.

The farm, in Cabot, Vermont, was cut into a steep hillside. Cows, sheep, pigs (two siblings, still busy packing on the pounds) and chickens grazed in various pastures carved out of the woods surrounding the house. The pig and a 30-pound turkey roasted slowly in a covered pit down the hill, the aroma of sizzling meat wafting up the hill to a hungry crowd. They’d been roasting for several hours by the time we all arrived. It smelled great.

As guests trickled in from the road and down the hill, through the pasture with plates and casseroles in hand, an immense table sagged under the weight of an endless variety of hearty homemade dishes. Beans, potatoes, beets, cabbage, squash, cheese, breads, pies, cookies, and more.Every taste was well represented, even vegan. Even chocolate. Kegs of locally brewed beer, along with a keg of homebrew, kept the adults happy while the kids took turns hand-cranking a cider press and keeping a pot filled over the fire with hot cider.

Even so, the pig was the big topic of conversation. How much longer? How long does it take? How do you know when it’s ready? How big was it?

By the time it was ready and being carved, I knew I’d want to taste this pig; the opportunity was too special to pass up. Not participating in this very symbolic celebration of the fall harvest would have felt sort of empty, like refusing a generous, heartfelt gift or like standing outside the circle.

Sweet and tender, dripping in juices, these were the most delicious morsels of pork I’ve ever eaten.

Food plays such a powerful role in creating community. The symbolic act of one farmer sharing a whole animal in celebration of a good harvest, combined with the equally symbolic act of many people contributing the best of their own bounty to create a feast for all, is moving in a simple, deeply meaningful way. It’s a tradition that’s lost to most of us these days, as we’re caught up in a whirlwind of activity that is sadly lacking in tradition and ritual.

In the end, it wasn’t simply about the pig or about all the good food on the table. It was about the feeling of sharing and warm community created on a blustery, cold October day. It was about people making connections, welcoming newcomers and sharing stories. Pausing to enjoy each other and a very good meal, before a long, cold Vermont winter begins. The pig and the sagging table of shared food, were symbols of our abundance, of community and of the willingness to share with each other the best of what we have.

I’m glad I tasted the pig.