Something to Chew On

Adam's mother is coming to stay with us next weekend, which means he has to figure out what to cook. Barbara is a vegan—a gelatovegan, to be precise, because she has a weakness for ice cream. Compounding the challenge: Our friend Tonya will also be visiting, and she doesn't really eat vegetables.

The last time we had this conundrum was in April, when he and I went to see my parents in Indio, Calif., and Adam's mother came to town for one night, before she and Adam drove to the Best Friends Sanctuary in Kanab, Utah. I doubt my parents know any vegans, and there was much debate over what to serve at the one dinner we'd all be attending. "All I need is a plate of beans," Barbara told Adam, evoking a Dickensian scene in which the rest of us devoured a big meal while she poked at her legumes. Instead, we devised the elegant solution of make-your-own tostadas; Barbara isn't the kind of vegan who minds if others eat meat in front of her. (Some people use the word "meat" to mean beef—and maybe lamb and pork—but not chicken and never fish. To my mind, if it's animal flesh, it's meat.)

Barbara's veganism runs contrary to most people's established hierarchy of edible animals. Last summer, when she got very sick from Lyme Disease, her doctor told her she needed protein. Adam, who had gone down to Virginia to help her, offered to cook some fish. "No, I'd like a steak," she said. (Oh, to have seen the look on his face!) She explained that steak was more defensible, because one animal was able to feed many people. If elephant were sold at the Harris Teeter, that would have been even better; shrimp are a disaster. I admired her logic. Why do people have fewer qualms about eating fish? They're less pettable, I suppose.

I have always ignored my own reservations about eating meat. Lately, however, vegetarianism, or at least a diet far heavier in vegetables, grains, etc., has seemed increasingly appealing, because (a) it's healthier; (b) it's better for the environment; (c) fresh vegetables are so plentiful and delicious this time of year; and (d) two days ago I ate some leftover pork barbecue for lunch, forgetting that the pork was six days old. I have come to the conclusion that it was zombie pork, and if the good news is that my stomach is winning the battle, the bad news is that the pork is slowly dying again inside of me. 

As Barbara and Adam drove to Utah, along a road where the handful of food options were pathetic, they ended up stopping for lunch at a McDonald's, reasoning that at least she could get a salad or maybe French fries. Sure enough, she ordered a chicken Caesar salad without the chicken. Barbara never eats at McDonald's, so she was surprised to find that the salad had chicken on it anyway. "You eat the chicken," she said to Adam.

"I'm not eating it," he said. He had been looking forward to his Filet-O-Fish and fries. She held it out to him, and he declined more firmly.

When I told my family later that she said, "OK, then, I'll eat it," they could not believe it. But to Barbara, there was no other choice: The worst possible outcome would have been for the chicken to have died for nothing.