Mixed greens salad with hazelnuts, goat cheese, cranberry raisins, and a lovely balsamic vinaigrette from The Horse Radish in Carlton, OR
I do not eat meat. For all intents and purposes, I am a vegetarian. However, you will rarely hear me utter the word. With all of the different kinds of vegetarians out there, I find it funny how this term supposedly indicates more about me than what I use to nourish my body: boring, environmental, green, twiggy, hippie, hairy, activist, deprived…I could go on and on. Yet, my lifestyle is no different than any other lifestyle. It is a collection of values and actions. No fancy labeling will ever fully describe the uniqueness embodied here, no matter how hard you try.
My dietary change came later in life. I long adored vegetarianism from afar. A meat and potatoes girl, I agreed with the earthiness but “could never give up a good steak.” Much of my time as a meat-eater was guided by the belief that I could not survive without it. Not until I learned to cook did I consider the infinite possibilities of the meals that I eat. Now, I sing the praises of foods I never wanted to try in the days B.C. (before cooking). The more I learned about food, the less I wanted meat to take up space on my plate. Soon, my ideals matched my ingredients and the meat simply became a memory.
Yet, I only identify somewhat my new dietary status. Along with other assigned meanings, the word “vegetarian” holds a pompous connotation in the American lexicon. By definition we are hurting no one, and still I expect some recoil when I use the v-word. As a voluntary minority, a vegetarian represents a challenge. Difference makes people uncomfortable; choosing to be different appears superior to the mainstream. Furthermore, our beliefs are always laid out on the table (quite literally). The conversation about my ideals may arise anytime I eat. Sometimes, I welcome it. Sometimes, I just want to stuff my face. Well, I always want to stuff my face -but not always amid the peanut gallery.
Labels are helpful in restaurants and potlucks but limiting for us humans. In the days of yore, I liked eating meat. The smell still drives me wild. While part of me fears the 7-year itch, part of me knows that none of it really matters. If I must exist and must act, what makes sense is that I act according to the principles of my choice. Whatever nomenclature others use to define my actions is out of my control. The true packaging is one word, and that word is “me.”
Photo Credit: Taken by the author on 11/12/11
Pictured: “Organic Mixed Greens…” from The Horse Radish
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