Not too long ago, I had the pleasure -- and I say so with crossed fingers -- of opening my door to a couple of old friends travelling in this part of the universe. Anyone within 2 hours drive of the American coastline probably knows what I'm talking about. It's like you suddenly become the alternate Motel 6 for any previously unknown or remotely acquainted friends, classmates or relatives. It would seem that these "former friends" of Shelley's were a couple and, since we were a couple, wouldn't it be "great" if they could save some money on hotel accommodations.
We exchanged pleasantries and discussed the weather like meteorologists before the conversation turned to eating. It was time for dinner and, yea, lo the mountaintops, the crux of my tale.
You see, our houseguests were vegetarians. Not just any vegetarians, but Vegans...Vegi-Nazis!
They were opposed not only to the consumption of meat but to an entire Dead Sea scroll of other foods including anything you might find in a normal supermarket. They had even considered boycotting broccoli when they discovered that it reportedly has a rudimentary central nervous system. These guys are vehemently opposed to the use of any known use of animals, whatsoever!
I myself am a meatatarian. I make Fred Flinstone look like Richard Simmons when it comes to anything that once had hemoglobin and can fit on a grill. I salivate at the sight of small animals when I haven't had a good steak in a while. The dog next door is first on my list if ever I should get so desperate. In fact, when I heard on the news yesterday that South Korea had actually successfully cloned the first dog, I immediately invested some capital in our local Kim Chi restaurant stock.
Our guests knew the precise content and ingredients of every morsel in the kitchen. It was like having two culinary Cliff Clavens analyze our guts. Being a fan of any debate, especially if a liberal might be involved, I challenged my guests' opinion that we are what we eat. I believe that we are what we meant to be -- that is, what we think. Yes, they countered, but we don't have the opportunity to think without a body to house our mind. Ah, very clever, my seaweed-eating friends, but what's the point in having a healthy body if its brain can think of nothing more than how much polyunsaturated fat is in a piece of bread.
I quickly concluded that being a Vegan is rather simple. It just means that you can't eat anything inside someone else's house. My wife, Shelley, graciously took the female Claven to the health food store (over 35 miles round-trip) for hay and soybean extract for our evening meal, while I stayed home with the other...errrr...fella. I quickly found out that he didn't like sports, which always makes me nervous. My grandpa always said, "Never trust a man who doesn't drink or follow sports." It made sense, especially now. I got us four beers and gave him one.
As the minutes dribbled on, we talked about his child and then some other things about his child and then, finally, even more about his child. I tend to get quite as I drink and this was probably a good thing. From all accounts, that boy was growing quickly and was as sharp as a tack. Which is pretty odd, if I think about it, I guess, because I'd obviously never heard a parent say that about their child before. I seized the opportunity to grab a quick bite, knowing that I probably wouldn't be hungry for health food later. Or ever...
He followed me, still talking, into the Kitchen where I reached into the freezer for the left-over half of a 12 inch Subway Philly Steak sandwich, with extra meat & mushrooms. Though slightly buzzed, I still remembered our company. I didn't want them to brandish a picture of dead cows on an easel or something, so I opted for a grilled cheese sandwich instead. Cheese was okay, I supposed, because they had to keep the cow alive to make it, right? I was probably saving a cow.
As I prepared my victuals, I felt the eyes of my houseguest on me even as he kept prattling on about the fruit of his loins. He was analyzing my food and apparently crunching numbers to determine its content, while visualizing the arteries in my body with his vege-enhanced vision. He suddenly wrenched his neck downward to see what I was spraying.
"Watcha makin' there?" asked the food voyeur.
"Grilled cheese sandwich and chips," I said.
"I see that you bought those Olean chips."
"Uh...Yeah..., Okaaay," I hesitantly replied, though I rechecked the bag and could clearly see they were Lays Sour Onion, despite being on my third Corona Extra.
"Did you know that Olean isn't even a food? Our body doesn't know how to digest it. That's why it causes cramping and loose stool syndrome."
"Uhhhuh...really?" Which did wonders for my appetite. I was finding it harder and harder to make eye contact with this guy by the minute. I passed by our guest with my stool-loosening chips and grilled fat sandwich en route to the living room. He nearly broke his neck for a better look at my plate.
Sitting down at the TV tray, I muttered around my half-full mouth, "And yeah, I grilled my sandwich with I-Can't-Believe-It's-Not-Butter spray."
We sat silently watching the Atlanta Braves. Okay...I watched the Braves, he watched me. Even my dogs were avoiding him by this time. The women returned home shortly with a bag of flora (sans ANY fauna) . Our lady guest wielded a special knife and frying pan that she actually carried with her. They must have been approved by the ANSHF (Association of Neurotics and Snobbish Health Freaks). Some people carry a wallet; others carry a pursem cell phone or even a calculator. This lady came with cooking utensils! It was like a portable infomercial.
Minutes later, our home was filled with the foulest odor that I ever sucked through my nostrils and being a former Infantry grunt, that's pretty good competition. It was a stench that still lingers in our curtains to this day. And every time I catch a whiff, I am compelled to form the following conclusions...
There must come a point where we draw the line between being conscious about what we eat and being obsessed with it. It is one thing to choose wholesome foods and another to travel with your own cutlery. Since our guests went about their Vegan way, it has become my goal to avoid anyone who analyzes the food on my plate. I don't want them as friends, family, or even temporaty neighbors at a restaurant table. Now, that doesn't mean I condemn their lifestyle. I hope my houseguests obtain their goal of living forever. May their urine always smell of soy extract. For me, it's not the quantity of years in my life, but the quality of life in my years, and I'd rather not prolong an existence that precludes chocolate, red meat or even broccoli!
By the way...Shelley informed me she didn't think the visit went all that well and that she didn't think her friends would come back.
Go figure!
We exchanged pleasantries and discussed the weather like meteorologists before the conversation turned to eating. It was time for dinner and, yea, lo the mountaintops, the crux of my tale.
You see, our houseguests were vegetarians. Not just any vegetarians, but Vegans...Vegi-Nazis!
They were opposed not only to the consumption of meat but to an entire Dead Sea scroll of other foods including anything you might find in a normal supermarket. They had even considered boycotting broccoli when they discovered that it reportedly has a rudimentary central nervous system. These guys are vehemently opposed to the use of any known use of animals, whatsoever!
I myself am a meatatarian. I make Fred Flinstone look like Richard Simmons when it comes to anything that once had hemoglobin and can fit on a grill. I salivate at the sight of small animals when I haven't had a good steak in a while. The dog next door is first on my list if ever I should get so desperate. In fact, when I heard on the news yesterday that South Korea had actually successfully cloned the first dog, I immediately invested some capital in our local Kim Chi restaurant stock.
Our guests knew the precise content and ingredients of every morsel in the kitchen. It was like having two culinary Cliff Clavens analyze our guts. Being a fan of any debate, especially if a liberal might be involved, I challenged my guests' opinion that we are what we eat. I believe that we are what we meant to be -- that is, what we think. Yes, they countered, but we don't have the opportunity to think without a body to house our mind. Ah, very clever, my seaweed-eating friends, but what's the point in having a healthy body if its brain can think of nothing more than how much polyunsaturated fat is in a piece of bread.
I quickly concluded that being a Vegan is rather simple. It just means that you can't eat anything inside someone else's house. My wife, Shelley, graciously took the female Claven to the health food store (over 35 miles round-trip) for hay and soybean extract for our evening meal, while I stayed home with the other...errrr...fella. I quickly found out that he didn't like sports, which always makes me nervous. My grandpa always said, "Never trust a man who doesn't drink or follow sports." It made sense, especially now. I got us four beers and gave him one.
As the minutes dribbled on, we talked about his child and then some other things about his child and then, finally, even more about his child. I tend to get quite as I drink and this was probably a good thing. From all accounts, that boy was growing quickly and was as sharp as a tack. Which is pretty odd, if I think about it, I guess, because I'd obviously never heard a parent say that about their child before. I seized the opportunity to grab a quick bite, knowing that I probably wouldn't be hungry for health food later. Or ever...
He followed me, still talking, into the Kitchen where I reached into the freezer for the left-over half of a 12 inch Subway Philly Steak sandwich, with extra meat & mushrooms. Though slightly buzzed, I still remembered our company. I didn't want them to brandish a picture of dead cows on an easel or something, so I opted for a grilled cheese sandwich instead. Cheese was okay, I supposed, because they had to keep the cow alive to make it, right? I was probably saving a cow.
As I prepared my victuals, I felt the eyes of my houseguest on me even as he kept prattling on about the fruit of his loins. He was analyzing my food and apparently crunching numbers to determine its content, while visualizing the arteries in my body with his vege-enhanced vision. He suddenly wrenched his neck downward to see what I was spraying.
"Watcha makin' there?" asked the food voyeur.
"Grilled cheese sandwich and chips," I said.
"I see that you bought those Olean chips."
"Uh...Yeah..., Okaaay," I hesitantly replied, though I rechecked the bag and could clearly see they were Lays Sour Onion, despite being on my third Corona Extra.
"Did you know that Olean isn't even a food? Our body doesn't know how to digest it. That's why it causes cramping and loose stool syndrome."
"Uhhhuh...really?" Which did wonders for my appetite. I was finding it harder and harder to make eye contact with this guy by the minute. I passed by our guest with my stool-loosening chips and grilled fat sandwich en route to the living room. He nearly broke his neck for a better look at my plate.
Sitting down at the TV tray, I muttered around my half-full mouth, "And yeah, I grilled my sandwich with I-Can't-Believe-It's-Not-Butter spray."
We sat silently watching the Atlanta Braves. Okay...I watched the Braves, he watched me. Even my dogs were avoiding him by this time. The women returned home shortly with a bag of flora (sans ANY fauna) . Our lady guest wielded a special knife and frying pan that she actually carried with her. They must have been approved by the ANSHF (Association of Neurotics and Snobbish Health Freaks). Some people carry a wallet; others carry a pursem cell phone or even a calculator. This lady came with cooking utensils! It was like a portable infomercial.
Minutes later, our home was filled with the foulest odor that I ever sucked through my nostrils and being a former Infantry grunt, that's pretty good competition. It was a stench that still lingers in our curtains to this day. And every time I catch a whiff, I am compelled to form the following conclusions...
There must come a point where we draw the line between being conscious about what we eat and being obsessed with it. It is one thing to choose wholesome foods and another to travel with your own cutlery. Since our guests went about their Vegan way, it has become my goal to avoid anyone who analyzes the food on my plate. I don't want them as friends, family, or even temporaty neighbors at a restaurant table. Now, that doesn't mean I condemn their lifestyle. I hope my houseguests obtain their goal of living forever. May their urine always smell of soy extract. For me, it's not the quantity of years in my life, but the quality of life in my years, and I'd rather not prolong an existence that precludes chocolate, red meat or even broccoli!
By the way...Shelley informed me she didn't think the visit went all that well and that she didn't think her friends would come back.
Go figure!
