I was vegan for three months. I was vegan for two months. I was vegan for a day. I feel like the perpetual dieter flip-flopping between ovo-lacto and egg- and dairy-free, starting out with all the gumption of a hard core herbivore, but giving in when tempted by a nice cheesy slice of tomato and onion thin crust. Hiding behind the pantry door sneaking granola bars with honey and non-fat dry milk. Munching on treats I know contain casein and saying, “Just this once.” Dodging anything that starts with “Tofutti” and loading up instead on fake cheese with whey because it “melts better.” Please, Lord, just tell me when this cycle of destruction and deceit will ever end.
When will I come face-to-face with the vegetarian I was meant to be? When will I stop trying to live up to imaginary expectations and start living up to my own? When will I see myself as I really am - a kind and gentle consumer trying too hard to please everyone all the time. Trying to wash my hair with animal friendly shampoo. Trying to walk around in non-leather shoes. Trying to reduce, reuse, recycle. Even, for heaven’s sake, trying to tinkle in a toilet cleaned with nothing harsher than a little vinegar and baking soda. Who am I really? And where do I fit in to this greener-than-thou chase?
Because isn’t that what really matters? The 'who am I' part? I’ve never had a dairy farmer join me for a plate of scrambled eggs. Nor have I dined with any PETA officials or highly visible animal rights activists. No, when I pull the chair up each day and place fork in hand, it is usually with the same faces - my husband of nineteen years and our four beautiful children. Two carnivores, two ovo-lactos, one vegan and me. What kind of eater do I want to be when I grow up?
I read books like Bob and Jenna Torres’ Vegan Freak. Talk of chickens crammed together in too small cages, unable to move and cruelly debeaked for fear of killing or maiming each other. Talk of longer life spans and reduced chances of diabetes, heart disease, and certain cancers. Talk of standing up for oneself and doing what feels right. And I understand. I get it. I really do. And, so, I start all over again. Today I’m a vegan. For good.
Only not really. The parmesan on my spaghetti gives me away. But I’m proud of myself. Did I cave over a Cheez Doodle? No. Did I waver in front of the bag of Oreos? Not a chance. Did I stand there drooling and shaking at the knees over a triple scoop of Mackinac Island Fudge? Not on your life! It was a dash. The slightest hint of dairy. Just enough to satisfy and reassure me that I had been on the right path all along.
For somehow in the past two weeks I have lost my taste for cheesy omelettes and buttery rolls. For creamy soups made rich with milk meant only for little cow niños. For yogurt and mayonnaise, and even string cheese. I gagged on the thought of egg salad and banana splits topped with whipped cream. I even turned up my nose at that childhood favorite, peanut butter and honey on toast. Yes, I had lost a taste, but I had also gained one.
I find myself now digging into mashed potatoes made with soy milk and dairy-free margarine. Sneaking seconds of vegan brownies. Filling the house with the aroma of fresh baked pumpkin cranberry muffins containing tofu and olive oil instead of the traditional eggs and butter. I crave any “ice cream” starting with Toffuti and fill my cart with Soy Dream and Vegenaise. And, to my surprise, substitute that childhood favorite with peanut butter and apple butter on toast. Yes, I’ve lost one taste but have certainly gained another.
So, I guess it’s not meant for me to jump ship cold turkey, or more aptly, Tofurkey. No rules are written that say I can’t try and try again. No law is in stone forbidding me to backtrack occasionally. No vegan police will come knocking at my door to confiscate my fudgsicle. I truly can, if I want, baby step my way into this vegan jungle. After all, I am a big girl. And big girls can make their own rules.
And, so, even if I never quite get there. Even if I never reach that magical “I am a vegan never looking back” moment, I will still be me. A kind and gentle consumer. One who could be kinder and could be gentler, but still contributes in her own way. One who loves her family, loves the creatures of the Earth, and loves the person she is today. And one who, by God, can tinkle in any kind of toilet she wants.
--Tammie, an at-home mother of four and vegan-wannabe, has her Masters in the field of Developmental Psychology. She enjoys living in her “mixed” family, part veg/part T-rex, and thanks very much her real life ovo-lacto niece for her I’m-gonna-change-the-world attitude. Her essays have appeared in Positively Woman and BusyParentsOnline.
