I call myself a vegetarian because it’s easier.
When I was young, I loved tuna melts. I loved the salty taste and the contrasting textures. I ate two or more every week until I was four years old. But, one day, I looked down at my sandwich and saw it had betrayed me: a small beetle in my tuna laughed back at me. I began to cry. I was scared and confused and stunned. I gently relocated the beetle to the ground and tried to forge ahead, but when I looked down to take another bite, all I saw were places the beetle may have stepped. It was over between us, and I have not eaten a tuna melt since.
At that moment, I decided to become a vegetarian. For the next few years, I wouldn't eat meat at all; I was repulsed by it. Today, however, I call myself an impious vegetarian. Why impious? Well, because I’m not very good at it. While I prefer to not eat meat, I eat bacon whenever I can. Not every day, but, you know, sometimes in the morning or for a midday snack.
This continued love of bacon created an obvious paradox. While I found meat disgusting after that fateful day, I couldn't figure out why bacon still tasted so good. Was I a hypocrite? Where should my preferences start and my convictions end? In order to examine my values, I reflected on history, one of my greatest passions.
In 1925, Mussolini enacted a law that placed a ridiculously high tariff on pasta. Mussolini thought that pasta represented the “old Italy,” and that it wasn’t quite right for his people. Mussolini’s rigidity of thought when it came to pasta was reflected in his obviously more dangerous political life, which led to catastrophe.
So, armed with my love of bacon and my desire to demonstrate more creative thinking than an Italian dictator, I decided to practice flexibility. Throughout this imperfect practice, I've discovered that those who are inflexible usually fail to achieve their goals.
A few years back, I found myself at a friend’s house for dinner. It was pasta night, and I love pasta (sorry, Mussolini). But, the pasta was bolognese. I sat down and examined my plate. Sure, if I was cooking dinner for myself, there wouldn’t be meat on my plate. But, here I was. I ate it. The act of enjoying the plate of bolognese was kinder and easier than pulling the vegetarian card and demanding a meat-free meal. For me, there’s a difference between habits and rules in the same way that there is a difference between opinions and laws. My experience has been that the world makes a lot more sense when I am less rigid in my actions and preferences.
The challenge, in practice, is in deciding when to maintain my convictions and when to practice flexibility and kindness. Inflexibility can be harder than saying yes to an occasional bite of bolognese.
If you come to my house for pasta night (which you’re welcome to, by the way), I’ll make a crowd-pleaser that we can all share. When I cook, I tend to grab for the pasta in the back of the cabinet that seems to be getting the least amount of love: a half-used box, or a weird shape. I especially love racchettes, little tennis racket-shapes that were easy to find when I was growing up in Hong Kong, but are tougher to find here.
Good pasta, cooked al dente, smothered in olive oil (or, better, butter) and a heaping pile of parmesan, is what this impious vegetarian’s dreams are made of. That’s what I’ll be having. Add a little bacon if you want or even an anchovy. You can eat whatever you want in my home, free of judgment.