My Dinner with Herbie

     When you tell someone you don’t eat meat, they look at you as if you just said, “I rather enjoy being waterboarded.” I understand this reaction. Some time ago, if you would have told me I’d be eating only fruit, grains, and vegetables, I would have invested in some japanese cutlery and died with honor...after eating a farewell pork roast, or course.

     So how can I be content in this post-cheeseburger existence of mine? Here’s one reason: If you gave my wife, Maria, a bucket of rhubarb and a fistful of dandelions, she could dash into the kitchen and turn it into something that would make a lumberjack re-think bacon. 

     As a cook, Maria has more in common with a jazz pianist. She’s all about the improvisation. For her, the recipe merely provides a key and time signature on which to riff. Her fingers tinkle up and down the spice rack like the soulful hands of Herbie Hancock. I’m little help, I’m afraid. If she’s Herbie Hancock, I'm the awkward fifth grader who joined the band and got stuck with the triangle.

     I got no groove in the kitchen! When I cook, I spend half my time bent over at the waist like a carpenter’s square, re-reading the recipe for the umpteenth time before making the momentous decision to dump a 1/4 teaspoon of cayenne pepper into the mix. By the time I reel myself upright and rotate to the frying pan, Maria has already shaken in random amounts of paprika and chili powder. I gasp at her audacity. She assures me that I won’t be disappointed. But I’m annoyed. I invested a lot of time into verifying that the recipe called for 1/4 teaspoon of cayenne pepper! And it was leveled off so nicely!

     So the other night, before she came home, I got working on a recipe for Spicy Lemon Pepper Pasta with Broccoli. When she came into the kitchen I resolutely waved off her suggestions. This time we were going by the book. 

     But, later, when we sat down to eat, I was disappointed. This dish was all spice and no love. I chewed slowly, breathing in sharply now and then to cool my tongue. Maria was politely silent. Too silent. I put down my fork. “Okay. What would you have done differently?” She shrugged. “I don’t know." But it eventually came tumbling out. "Maybe I would have added some chickenless chicken broth...a little basil...and I would have zested the whole lemon.” 

     My mouth instantly watered at her suggestions. Dang, that sounded good. Really good. 

    
 And that, my friends, that is one reason I’m able to live without filet mignon. I live with a veggie virtuoso.

     I learned another lesson that night. If all you can do at the piano is one-finger “Twinkle Twinkle, Little Star” you might want to scootch over and make a little room for Herbie Hancock.

Vegan Me

     In May of 2011 I went to see a movie called Forks Over Knives. It's all about the benefits of eating a whole food plant-based diet which is code for "vegan". (In fact, the word "vegan" is only mentioned twice in the film and both times by a successful mixed martial arts fighter named Mac Danzig. The thinking here is, if you're capable of kicking your opponent in the ear before he even sees your foot leave the ground, you get to use the word vegan with no fear of ridicule.  And, unfortunately, vegans are the object of great ridicule. In fact, the only group of people who seem to be more universally disliked are mimes. If you're a vegan who also happens to be a mime, you're probably ostracized in a way that makes gypsies feel downright trendy. But I digress.)

I went to see this movie by myself because I knew if I took Maria, my steady date and wife for the last 26 years, I'd wake her inner hippie, and the next thing you know I'd be buying food products with names that were seemingly created to embarrass the shopper. "Excuse me, where would I find the, um...tofurkey?" I once asked a stocker. "THE TOFURKEY IS RIGHT NEXT TO THE FAKIN' BACON!" she screamed. "Gee, thanks," I thought. "And to think you can get that kind of volume without a megaphone." You see, I went to see Forks Over Knives by myself because part of me wanted to do something bold to improve my health but the other part of me really wanted more cheese for my nachos.

Long story short, I fell in love with "Forks Over Knives". I went home and told Maria all about it. We went back the next night, and just as I suspected she went full Woodstock for it. That night we bought a rice cooker and more fruit and vegetables than I had consumed in the previous decade.

That was May of 2011. I was a totally devoted vegan for six months. Almond milk, tempeh, black bean burgers, vegan-this, vegan-that. Loved it. I truly did. Not hard at all. I saw the benefits immediately and dropped 25 pounds by Thanksgiving. But then, of course, came Thanksgiving.

"I'm not going to be weird about this," I told Maria. "I'm going to have a little Turkey. A tiny slice of pie and maybe just a little butter on my roll. A drizzle of gravy, that's all...and a spoonful stuffing."

You can guess how things turned out. Not only did I keep my promise NOT to be weird on Thanksgiving, I was perfectly un-weird all the way through New Year's Day...and the entire year that followed.

But I'm ready to start again. The truth is, I must. I am a type II diabetic who is living in La La Land. I'm maxed out on medication, I have arthritic knees, I'm tired, and I feel older than my 51 years. I have a lot left to do in life, not the least of which is watch my five wonderful children continue to grow.

So bring on the whole-food plant-based diet. I won't call it vegan. Not until I can, with lightning speed, bring my arthritic knee into the ribs of a meat-eating bully.