It's mid-February. A show of hands,
please: how many of us are still sticking with our New Year's
resolutions?
Honestly, I'm not sure I made any
resolutions this year. If I did, well, they were fleeting and of the
altruistic, yet unquantifiable variety, such as “Be a kinder
person.” You know, the types of resolutions that were intended to
elicit similar responses from our kids: “I'll be nicer to my
brother,” or “I'll help Mommy more around the house.”
Yep, we're not great about sticking
with resolutions here.
Of course, because I'm a woman of a
certain age whose metabolism flew the coop about five years ago, I
always privately resolve to eat better and exercise more. I just
don't speak those words out loud, because I know that the likelihood
of me hitting the gym during the insanely busy spring growing season
for my business is nil.
And, frankly, I refuse to deprive
myself of red wine and chocolate.
So, imagine my shock when I
became—inadvertently--a vegetarian.
I grew up in a meat and potatoes
family. Truly. Dinner centered around a roast beast, potatoes,
white, squishy bread rolls, and maybe a salad. The overriding focus
on meat was, I believe, a generational, socioeconomic attribute. Both
of my parents grew up during the Depression. Our father often told
stories of his life on the family farm, where the family celebrated
the demise of a ill-fated chicken crossing the road with a rare
fried-chicken dinner. He also raised a pet pig.
Trust me. You don't want to know what
became of his pet.
I rarely ate a vegetable during my
entire childhood. There's something to be said about being the baby
of the family, particularly if you're a late-in-life, surprise baby.
My siblings regaled me with dinner-table horror stories: gagging down
ice cold, mushy peas until 10 p.m., eating a ketchup-covered banana
that someone thought would be a creative way to avoid eating her
fruit...
By the time I made an appearance, my
parents were tired. It was easier to cater to my picky palate than
deal with dinner drama. Thus, I became the pickiest eater in the
Midwest. Not only did my mother make separate meals for me, I was
never force-fed broccoli. Or peas. Or squash. My childhood vegetable
consumption included:
- Iceburg lettuce—plain, thank you. No dressing or weird additions to my crunchy pale green leaves, please.
- Corn. With lots of butter and salt.
- Potatoes. Honestly, I don't think potatoes even count. And all of the GMOs in the corn probably negates any health benefits the corn theoretically provided.
Embarrassingly, my vegetable phobia
continued well into my adulthood. Yes, I added a few bits of green to
my repertoire—cucumbers, real lettuce, asparagus, spinach salad—but
until five years ago, I didn't even eat tomatoes.
(Ironic, now that I own an organic,
heirloom plant nursery, specializing in—160 varieties of tomatoes.)
As a mother, I created my family's
meals much like my mother did—meat, starch, and occasional side of
quickly microwaved peas. Yes, I added more veggies and began growing them as well, but meat took
center stage at every meal. Granted—our meat was pristine, raised
humanely by local farmers, some of whom are now friends. Our meat
originated from happy, healthy animals living happy, healthy lives.
Free-range chicken, grass-fed beef, heritage turkeys—delicious,
star quality dinner showpieces.
Then, a strange twist of fate.
A raccoon attacked one of our hens. (If you missed the drama, you can read about it here.)
In those moments of holding Salt,
trying to assess her wounds and comfort her, something shifted.
My perception about food changed.
I suddenly found myself unable to eat
meat.
I thought my aversion was temporary.
After all, our daughter, who loves her chickens as if they are her
children, still relishes Zaxby's even after the demise of her pet.
But as days passed, I found myself
reading Alice Waters' books, heading to Whole Foods, leaving with a
cart full of stunning produce, and then trying to figure out how to
cook it. And you know what?
It. Was. Good.
Fresh eggs and Swiss Chard frittata.
Mushroom risotto. Ratatouille.
Who knew? (Actually, I think many
people knew. It was like discovering an amazing secret club, and I'd
finally earned admittance.)
Even the kids ate more vegetables. Put
an asparagus spear on the plate of a six year old boy, and listen to
the whines ensue—until you share the “stinky pee” secret.
It's amazing how much more appealing
the asparagus became.
My husband joked that I shouldn't write
about my emerging vegetarianism, because he knows my carnivorous ways
too well. And who knows? Will it stick? Right now, after seven weeks
without meat, I'm optimistic. And I feel good. I'm not vegan—I eat
seafood, dairy products, and eggs, so meal planning is fairly easy.
Plus, it's not like I banned chocolate and wine from my life—that
would never stick. Actually, eating my veggies and forgoing meat is
surprisingly simple.
Last fall, our oldest son brought his
new girlfriend home for dinner. Prior to their arrival, he informed
me that she was—gasp!--a vegetarian. Panic! What could I cook? If I
made risotto, could I use chicken stock, or should I run to the store
for vegetable broth? Would she be offended by the steak I already
prepared for the family? How much salad does a vegetarian eat? I made
more, just in case...
And honestly, I worried. How could this
relationship work? Our son is a serious carnivore, like me. He even
owns this t-shirt to taunt his vegetarian friends:
Funny thing. Our son is now on his
third meat-free week.
And he likes it.
Love makes college boys do some crazy
things, huh?
I'm not advocating vegetarianism. It's
not my place to tell anyone what or how to eat. (Although I do hope
you'll support your local farmers as much as possible, please.) I
still eat crap occasionally. I'm—shamefully--addicted to Diet Coke.
(I know, I know...it's really bad for me. I promise, I'll work on
it.)
But this vegetarian thing?
Well. It's pretty delicious.
My parents should have made me eat my
peas, after all.
Bon appetit!
Julie
