1) I’m not vegan. To a certain segment of my cuisine “community,” that makes me bad. End of story. Never mind that I’ve remained steadfast, without a single dietary exception, since I made this choice thirty-eight years ago. In Texas.
3) I don’t eat nuts. No allergy. I just really, really, really don’t like them. It’s the bitterness. And the way the little bits want to nestle in the grooves of my teeth. (I pass on jelly beans, too.) You can have all the chocolate covered almonds and the banana bread chalk full of walnuts. No sharing necessary. I’m not so big on banana bread anyway. I suppose that could be a separate point, but you already know enough.
4) Vegan cheez does not get a passing grade. I’ve bought all the brands. I’ve tried the vegan interpretation of mozzarella, gouda, blue, parmesan, feta, cream cheese and cheddar. There’s always a foreign tanginess or an issue with melting or just the fact that the cheez does not taste like cheese. You could blindfold me to conduct a taste test, but I should warn you it doesn’t take much for me to feel claustrophobic. It won’t end well with me screaming and swatting the air. You don’t need the assault and I don’t need that tedious detour through the legal system.
I lined up a couple times at a “vegan dairy” that only opened four hours on Saturdays. The line seemed to justify the high prices. But it all comes down to taste. That “vegan dairy” is now a ceramics store. Karma.
5) I don’t eat Greek. Sure, there’s moussaka, but my uncle and I may be the only two people on the planet who are allergic to eggplant. My reaction isn’t pretty. Just trust me on that. Sure, I could have the Greek salad, but that’s a whole lot of chopped onions and cucumbers and, frankly, not all that interesting. There’s spanakopita, but phyllo is too messy. Same with baklava, also loaded with those dang nuts.
6) I don’t preach. I’ve sat through plenty of meals with people grilling me about being on the veg spectrum. Really, I’d rather talk about anything else. Even Trump. I don’t mind talking with someone who is genuinely curious, but the questioning is often leading in a way that makes the former lawyer in me want to shout, “Objection!” The motive comes around to finding flaws in my choice and ultimately superiority in the meat-eating lifestyle. But I’m not battling and I’m not recruiting. I have very strong feelings on the subject but, as with religion, I keep them to myself. Find your own way. Make your own choices. Respect that others make their own.
7) I’ve heard your joke. Jokes even. You’re a meat-a-tarian. Har har. You eat vegetarians for breakfast. (Who are you…Hannibal Lecter?) A lawyer, a vegan/vegetarian and a politician are on a sinking boat…who do you save? Society! Yuk yuk. I have a sense of humor; I laugh when something’s funny. Here’s the thing: the joke has to be funny. And new.
8) Cheese-less pizza is good. I swear. I’ll admit I felt embarrassed the first time I ordered it in one of those lines like at Chipotle where you choose the toppings. The two guys behind the counter thought I was pranking them. Like it was being filmed for a new incarnation of Candid Camera. No pepperoni. No mozza. “No taste.” (Yuk yuk…again.)
9) I don’t want fake meat. And I really don’t want fake bloody “juices.” I don’t miss the taste of meat. Honestly. It’s been thirty-eight years. I’m over it. Eating a meaty burger or chick*n in a restaurant freaks me out. A regular meat eater may chew away and dismiss the attempt at the deep fake, but I take a bite and worry. To me, it tastes like sausage, ground beef or bacon. Again, it’s been thirty-eight years. What do I know?
I surmise the fake meat movement is directed to veg folk who have made the switch for health reasons. They miss meat. It’s also an option for meat eaters dragged into a vegan café, “forced” to abide by the sign at the door (No Smoking, No Kicking, No Screaming). They can order the butter chick*n and shrug (translation: passable, not that they’ll admit it) or mock. Everyone loves a critic.
10) I’m not a healthy eater. I don’t track my protein (a favorite perceived Achilles’ heel of steadfast meat-a-tarians). I never went into this as a health choice. It was solely about my personal ethics and morals which, no, I’m still not going to barrage you with. Ice cream is one of my main food groups. I sometimes munch on raisins and decide that’s lunch. I love carbs—loaves of sourdough, heaps of fettuccini, Scandinavian crispbread—even though society has been on an extended anti-carbs kick. Maybe that’s why I don’t preach. I am nobody’s role model. I won’t look you in the eye (or mouth) while you gnaw on a basket of buffalo wings or pull apart a lobster, but I’m going to let you be you as long as you do the same with me.
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