6/90, or 3/45, or cooking the chicken

The other day, I tried to make vegan oatmeal-banana cookies. They had peanut butter, which under normal circumstance is the duct tape of food. This was not a normal circumstance.

I am not a vegan, not really, but I try sometimes. Right now, I'm trying. I'm giving my body a chance to slow down, to forgive me for the frozen pizzas, jars of nutella, bottles or pints of stouts, pots of coffee. But at this point, after giving myself a month of Holiday Eating allowances followed by a month of Another Year of Long Distance allowances, it was hard to make it through a few hours without chewing on some type of carbohydrate.

I was excited when I found the recipe. I thought that this time I could stick to it. This time, I would find recipes that I love, that I could share with future children. It would be a success; they wouldn't know the different. There friends would come over, eat chik'n nuggets, dip vegan cookies in soy milk and not know what they were "missing."

As I folded the batter, mixing the soy butter with the rolled oats, I knew something was off. I thought of the years of tofurkey, of being afraid that my children would go to a sleepover and be sick when their friends fed them cheese or hotdogs. This wasn't what I wanted. Not really.

I didn't want to be dependent on the specialty grocery, but even more, I didn't want to be attached to these processed combinations of textured vegetable proteins any more than I wanted to be attached to the CAFO* that required so much processing of meat. Because wasn't this defeating the purpose? Wasn't I cutting out meat to cut out the boxed meals, the canned soup, the processing and salting and preserving?

I thought of this as I dropped the sticky spoonfuls of banana paste and oats onto the cookie sheet. I thought of this more when I realized I was craving a steak, when I was chewing (for a longer time than usual) the doughy cookie.

I am not blaming the recipe. I am not blaming the vegan way of life. The cookies were a mishap, but the vegan chocolate chip cookies, the apple crisp, the falafal... These were joyous moments in the kitchen. I left my cookie half eaten, cooling on the aluminum foil. Exhaling through the steaming cookie I was still chewing, I realized my snack wasn't the only thing burning me. There was another question reeling, the question that I so often try to ignore.

Could I contain myself to one lifestyle choice? I could not say that yes, I will eat meat again. This is not what I want. But I cannot say that I don't want it either. What I want can be stated simply, in a day that I often imagine.

I return from a farmers market. Carrots and celery and potatoes still covered in dirt hang in a sack on my shoulder. I am carrying a chicken, killed yesterday on a farm down a country road where they have been killing chicken for over 100 years. I pause to imagine the family's efficient operation, cleaning the chicken lovingly, with appreciation. I lay the naked bird on the counter with an equal amount of appreciation.

From here, I go to work. My knife knows what curves to follow, how leave the bones nearly clean. I know how to put the bones to work, making stock, wasting nothing. I have mastered my kitchen--freezing thighs for coq au vin; chopping up darker pieces cook with the stock and make noodle soup; soaking the breasts in marinade, prepping them for dinner.

Here, one could see Joe entering the kitchen. The meat has been soaking up flavor. He gets the grill going with a burst of flame and I prepare the table. But this is not that story. This is not about playing a gender-defined role. This is not about mastering kitchen skills to create a happy home, though I'll be pleased if this happens.

No. This is about reconnecting with food, with the communion that it represents, with the tradition that spreads across every culture, time and society. This is the story of nourishing oneself and others. This is what I want. This awareness and appreciate of my body, and the bodies that are required to take care of it, be it vegetable, animal or mineral. This is a love story, a relationship.


*CAFOs are the reason for my vegetarian lifestyle. I'll save this for another blog post...