I really talked up July, as it approached. I talked about how I wouldn’t eat any ice cream and how many fun new recipes Nic and I would attack, how I would get him to exclaim, “Eating vegan is FUN!”
It’s July 23rd. I’ve eaten vegan exactly zero days since July 1st.
When someone offers me food, I take it. I take it because I love to eat, but I really take it because I love to share. I love to accept an offer from someone else. I live for the moments when two people eat one thing; when we marry our palates by dividing our plates.
I’ve been living with Nic’s parents for the past month, a form of home-schooling. One person makes the main (fish, pork, deer, chicken or beef), while another offers up a side (green beans? yes! ah…with corned beef) and then both are accompanied by cottage cheese. Then one person washes while another person dries.
I take walks through the country with my dog and stop to talk to the cows. I tell them I’m sorry; I’ll do better next month. I’ll do better next year.
I think back to the shrimp to whom I made a vow, “I will not eat your brethren.” I lower my head. There’s a recipe card sitting on the counter. It reads: Shrimp and Zucchini Tacos.
I eat vegan in the mornings, when I’m up alone. I top cereal and oats with soy milk, I buy dairy-less breads and spread almond butter on them. I drink strong black coffee, coffee that itself feels like strength.
But I am weak in the company of others. I am weak to gratitude. I accept dishes from all those who offer. I smile while I chew, no matter the fare.