Mouthful of Month

Well, I made it through the month as a vegan and I’m emerging pretty unscathed, though I will admit to a pregnancy scare 'cause my period took the month off in protest, likely due to my sudden drop in weight and unrelated spike in stress-level. Of course the fear of having a flaxseed/spelt bun in the oven led to the purchase of a home pregnancy test, the creation and marketing of such I'm sure was somehow linked to animal exploitation and countless tests on tabby kittens.

I haven't broken through the plant only dietary restriction finish line yet, though I have the feeling I will tomorrow with something as seemingly benign as my still beloved and dearly missed French Vanilla CoffeeMate. The conclusion I've come to, if I can be pompous enough to pretend that I've come to any conclusion from this experiment, is that food, in this societies, serves a much more varied list of functions than in other places in the world. While some cultures break bread to share in tradition or, you know, not starve, here in America (or maybe I should say in a predominately educated, largely white, mid-sized city such as Portland) a diet becomes a fashion statement, a political remark, and an accessory.

I will admit that it was fun at times to have been contrary and difficult when it came to food choices these past few weeks, and usually this was due more in part to the company I was in, or the level of attractiveness that the waiter or waitress possessed. But because the decision to cut out animal products stemmed mainly from a desire to step up my game when it came to talking shit while thrift store shopping or waiting in line for a Diet Coke at some hipster-filled bar, I learned the details regarding the various avenues that led "natural" vegans to their path only after I started to play Jenga with my own personal food pyramid. This means that I did get an education along with that Whole Foods 365 White Corn chip on my shoulder.

For example, I wouldn't have known that calves to be used as veal have their movement wholly restricted by neck shackles, or that a chicken slaughter line can decimate up to 8,400 chickens per hour, if I had simply scoffed at my roommate's revulsion towards chicken flavored ramen or my well-coiffed friend‘s pallor when seeing veal upon a local restaurant menu. I wouldn't have felt such serious adoration and respect for chef Brian Hill, the staff at Food Fight grocery, or John Janulis who co-owns the Bye and Bye, if I didn‘t know how fucking difficult it is to find vegan gum or that purchasing vegan lip balm is pretty much as easy as acquiring a PhD in acquired physics. I would have judged vegans with a broad, and yet ignorant, brushstroke. And, sure, the skinny-jeans wearing masses who seem to embrace a dietary restriction simply to stand out from the omnivorous (and mainly less privileged) global population will still my wrath and hear my venomous snorts at the checkout counter of New Seasons. But I've learned that sometimes the function of privilege, education, and the luxury of not dying from malnutrition can be used towards making a statement that all living things are equal. It’s the application of our dumb dietary luck of being born in this country that can illustrate the unfortunate fact that ignorance to the ridiculous bounty we’re able to access every day breeds the problem. If every person, and every vegan, used their brains along with their mouths we might be able to slowly devour the system that leads to cruelty, consumerism without compassion, and over-consumption in the first place.

I still have a lot to say on the topic of food as a means of giving comfort, but I’ll save that for another day. I ate a burrito this evening that fell so heavily in my stomach, they could have felt Anaheim chili aftershocks as far away as Klamath Falls. Vegan food comas are as exhausting as their sinew strewn nemeses.

Stay tuned for my next culinary adventure, where I only eat black pudding for the entire month of June.

Just kidding.

(Here's the link to Vegan Action, a pretty badass site.)

Veganism Is Truly, Truly, Truly Outrageous

The other day I received a Twitter direct message from someone who who wanted to feed me. I suggested coffee because I am filled with an ungodly amount of pride.

Eva Darling is kind of like a cartoon character that got bored with all the sparkles and zany sound-effects so she decided to step out of the 2D world and into ours. She’s as fun to stare at as an episode of Jem! and conversations with her make you feel like you’ve gotten into a tickle-fight. Her real name is Eva Darling. In brief, she didn’t have to feed me to make me like her.

But she did. And oh, how she did. My plan to meet up at a coffee shop and discuss her vegetarianism and thereby avoid any sort of soup kitchen-esque handout backfired. Eva showed up with a woven tote bag boasting, poorly translated from Chinese, “Alternative Living: No more killing Be healthy and loving.” (It also had a cartoon hen saying, “We Pray for You.” No joke.) Inside of the bag was a jar of carrot apple curry soup, homemade tofu jerky, wakame seaweed salad, a bag of Have’A corn chips, Seitenbacher Veggie-Burger-Mix #2, Dave’s Killer Bread Peace Bomb, a Bumble bar, Seitenbacher Vampire’s Lunch, and a mango the size of my ego. There were also hot pink hair extensions, but I think they’re both inedible and probably not vegan.

I will start by saying that the soup was hands down the best soup I have ever consumed. Better than the (vegan) spinach wonton soup from gobo in New York. Better than Amy’s (vegan) organic alphabet soup. Better than my mother’s chicken noodle. (Sorry, mom.) Eva’s soup kicked all soups asses and knocked them out cold. In fact, I ate it cold, out of the little jar she’d packed it in. Scroll to the bottom of this posting for the recipe.

I first had Dave’s Killer Bread at Paradox Café, a vegan diner down the block from my house. Dave’s loaves look like bird food but taste like heaven. The Peace Bomb, which I guess is a hippie’s version of a baguette, was just as good as Dave’s Good Seed bread, though all bread products, when toasted, make me crave eggs over easy or turkey with honey mustard. Don’t judge me for my barbaric cravings, I’m just being honest. Cigarettes are gross and the tobacco industry is inherently evil, but that doesn’t mean that once you quit smoking you stop craving a nic fix. Same goes for animal products. "Come to where the flavor is..."

The mango proved to be a bit of a physical challenge, only because I couldn’t figure out how to approach it, as I had never before been in the presence of a mango that large. My roommate (not the vegan one) washed dishes while eying me with trepidation as I took the largest knife from the drawer and approached the fruit like Annie Wilkes to Paul Sheldon. It then quickly evolved into a scene from the cutting room floor of 9 ½ Weeks, where I basically was up to my elbows in mango pulp and juice, grinning in a way that I think was only rivaled in the back seat of a Jeep back in 1998. “You look like one of those little monkeys eating that, one of those little monkeys with the fire-red asses,” the non-vegan roommate said. And with that he vacated the kitchen, leaving me, my butcher knife, and Eva’s darling mango to make bliss among the clean dishes.

The tofu jerky and the wakame salad were both snacks that remedied my usual mid-afternoon salt-n-sweet craving when washed down with some diet soda. Tonight I’m going to try to make the veggie burgers as well as figure out why they’re number two. (Eva’s guess, “Veggie-Burger-Mix #1 was recalled because it made everyone who ate it grow dreadlocks and buy VW busses.”) I’m saving the Vampire’s Lunch (“Gummi Fruits Made With Real Fruit Juice”) and the chips for a night when I’ll make Eva guacamole and then clean her entire apartment, wash her sexy van, and launder, iron, and fold her whole wardrobe out of gratitude. If being vegan means getting food like this from girls like that then I will subscribe to “Alternative Living” permanently.

Big thanks to Eva Darling, who allowed me to smear my adoration for her all over this blog and providing the recipe for the soup to end all soups:

Recipe for Curried Carrot Apple Soup
2T olive or coconut oil
1 onion, chopped
5 med sized carrots, cut into chunks
1 clove minced garlic
1 apple, peeled, cored, cut into chunks
2 med sized potatoes, peeled, cut into chunks
1t fresh ginger, peeled & minced
2T curry powder
5 cups water or stock
1/2 lemon, juiced
Salt & pepper to taste

In soup pot, heat oil on medium heat. Add onion and cook for 3 minutes. Add everything else except lemon juice and water/stock. Com until carrots are bright orange and spices become aromatic. Add water/stock and bring to a boil. Cook until veggies are soft. Purée with a blender. Add lemon juice, salt and pepper to taste. Adjust consistency with water/stock. Serve!

Chasten My Casein: Day Two

I woke up to the most beautiful day of my residence in Portland thus far. Birds? Chirping. Sun? Actually shining. Roommates? All but The Vegan One sleeping. It was going to be a good morning.

Breakfast is important to me. I’d say that it falls somewhere between dry socks and breathing on my personally assigned level of importance. Without breakfast I have been known to overuse sayings such as, "I will cut a bitch," and to literally cry if I'm prevented from my morning consumption. My fervor for cereal with skim milk washed down with two cups of coffee and a helluva lot of Splenda (on everything) has been labeled OCD or batshit crazy by nearly everyone who has had the misfortune of seeing me in the morning, my mother included. If you value your genitalia you will not drink, move, or otherwise fuck with my skim milk. Or, as of this month, my Vitasoy milk. Same goes for my CoffeeMate.

One of the weird things that goes on in my head is the way that small things excite me. This seemingly asinine enthusiasm for minutiae has only been increased with my sobriety. Buying a new bottle of shampoo is enough to bring me to the edge of smug laughter. Non-fat French vanilla flavored CoffeeMate has been a perpetual bottle of bliss since my discovery of it on Long Island a mere year and a half ago. CoffeeMate is the elevation of breakfast. I am serious. It’s also the elevation of the workday, when I have one.

It even has the nerve to challenge the mother of all mothers to a battle. Nestlé says, “CoffeeMate. Dozens of Ways to Enjoy Coffee. Let’s see milk do that!” It threatens. It’s brash and not made with anything remotely natural. It’s commonly associated with women named Linda who have acrylic tips, drive Miatas, and chew gum during their shift at the salon.

I adore it. I practically bleed it. It’s like marshmallow’s tears. Or better.

Why I decided that today, my second vegan morning, where everything feels right, especially refraining from killing things for food or fun, to check the goddamn ingredients list on my heaven-sent non-dairy creamer is beyond me. I had asked this question to the blue bottle before.

Is it vegan?

It says non-dairy. That, prior to yesterday, was enough.

CoffeeMate, the non-dairy creamer, contains casein. What is casein, you ask. My response would ,as it is to most things, “Wikipedia that shit.”

“Casein (from Latin caseus "cheese") is the predominant phosphoprotein (aS1, aS2, ß) that account for nearly 80% of proteins in milk and cheese.”

Or, as it says on the bottle, a milk derivative.

I repeat, the non-dairy creamer. Has. A. Milk-derivative. In it.

Not vegan. Not even close.

Why is it in there? To improve the consistency of the stuff. Basically it’s like an emulsifier, from what I gleaned through several internet searches that were eventually derailed by porn. (You can take the meat out of the meat and potatoes but I am still an All ‘Merican, red-blooded gal.) Casein is something added to other stuff to solve any textural woes.

But it’s not just a hellion of breakfast destruction, oh no. Not only is it used in non-dairy products such as veggie slices and cheese singles, in part ‘cause it gets all good ‘n melty, but casein is used to make adhesives, protective coatings, and plastic products (“such as for knife handles and knitting needles”) while also being a post-workout supplement for bodybuilders. Yes, hipster, your knitting needles might be working in direct opposition to your veganism. Now go and knit your ennui a sweater.

Needless to say, I did not throw out the CoffeeMate. Rather, it’s resting for a month on our refrigerator door. Considering that it doesn’t expire until May 8th (yes, of this year, it’s artificial but it ain’t Cher) I figure I can lust after it every morning as I reach for the soy milk.

I did not check the ingredients list on my Corn Flakes. Don’t tell me. Until tomorrow I just don’t want to know.

Postscript

List of Things I Suddenly Miss Since I Went Vegan (Yesterday)
Yoplait
CoffeeMate (duh)
Eggs
Pine State Biscuits. Yes, I only had them once. No, I never missed them before, even though their awesomeness cannot be denied. For whatever reason, though, I have wanted a warm biscuit in the worst way since yesterday morning. Considering I live down the block from the joint it is going to be a long, dreary month exercising breakfast restraint.
(Pine State Biscuits, 3640 SE Belmont Street.)

"There's a hunger inside me..."

After a brief absence due to an unplanned vacation from work known as sudden unemployment on account of being fired, I return to my foray into being a vegan. This is a little bit more dire and uncomfortable now being that I have no fucking clue if I will be able to eat - anything - by the end of April. Allow me to take a moment to whore myself and say, if you are looking for someone to write or edit anything for you for a nominal fee I’m your girl. Give me work, which will in turn pay for vegan food, which will in turn allow me to continue blogging. Jesus Christ, that is the most pathetic sentence I think I’ve ever written.

In the past few feverish days a dialog has followed me. It has gone as follows:
“Whatchya eating?” (Usually this is said to someone eating something that I’m hoping they will share with me because, as previously noted, I am now out of work and poor.)

Cute girl at coffee shop with labret piercing: “Cosmic sandwich. Meat free. Not so good.” She pushes away her plate in disgust.

Kid with bike: “Dunno. But it’s vegan.” He opens his mouth, showing me a pasty mass of brown goop on his tongue. Delightful.

Roommate: “Vegan muffin. Tastes like shit.” (He proceeded to throw it in the trash where I had to restrain myself from diving after it. It landed in a pile of old coffee grinds, over a banana peel, next to a drained six pack of PBR. We‘re not at that level of hunger. Yet.)

I would like to point out, as my mother did when I was little, that there are people starving...The rest of her sentence went “in Africa,” while mine goes something like, “on Yamhill Street, grey house, the one with the organ on the lawn.” I can imagine at the homeless shelter across the street from where I was fired, they’re handing out sandwiches and one unshowered, impoverished straggler asks, “Is it vegan?”

If you’d like to see my struggle to get work in addition to my struggle to go vegan check out Jerk Ethic. It’s like watching the baby seals, pandas, and whales win. http://jerkethic.tumblr.com/
I’m off to eat a can of meat-free, gluten-free, dairy-free soup. It’s organic, too.

Prep School, v. 2 (take out menu edition)

I have a menu mixed in with the countless papers in the fairly cumbersome Ikea catchall that clutters my work desk. The menu is for anonymous vegan eatery in lovely downtown Portland.

Now, before I go any further, in the interest of full disclosure, one of my roommates works for said eatery and he has a tendency to whistle while in the kitchen below my bedroom. He also complains when I take long (read: regular female length) showers. He is the chef when one speaks of this establishment's Chef's Special. Last night he urinated with the door open. The sheer force of his stream woke me up at both 2AM and 3:30AM. He is a vegan. Draw your own conclusions.

Using this cafe and catering menu as a map key to veganism I have struggled to answer some pertinent questions that have arisen as I start to train myself for my month long course in sustainable cuisine...

Question 1. - Is CoffeeMate vegan?

Anyone who has ever had the unique pleasure of working in an office with me quickly learns two things: one, I am not a "team player" like my resume claims and, two, I drink my body weight in fat free french vanilla flavored CoffeeMate daily. Yesterday in Fred Meyer it dawned on me that perhaps this delectable concoction of artificially flavored pseudo-milk solids and potassium benzoate might not be free of animal products. I consult my menu of "organic, vegan, and lovingly sustainable" vittles and find that hemp milk, kombucha, and genmaicha are available to imbibe or enhance a beverage but CoffeeMate is not. Nestle should know better. They have a bird as their logo. Just put a little Helvetica "vegan" on the label and sales would increase by, oh, .08%. At least here in Portland. Moreover, how in the hell will I not pull an Incredible Hulk and toss my computer out of the window without at least an eensy-weensy bit of coffee's favorite mate? Vegan non-dairy creamer: Fail.

Question 2. - Are vegans funny.

Note the lack of inquisitive punctuation. It's 'cause I already know the answer. "Veggie Pasta" is not pasta, but is zucchini. No pasta is present in the dish labeled as such. "Pizza" has something called "cashew cheese," "fajitas" have cashew crème , I'm not even going to get into the BBQ and taco options. Now, part of me is torn. I loathe traditional American cuisine and full-fat dairy products leave me wishing for that scene from Alien to just hurry up and finish reenacting itself in my lower colon. However, I'm not an idiot. If I order a piece of chocolate cake and wind up with an eggplant cut into a wedge I will know the difference. Moreover, what the fuck is cacao, maca , or wellness tincture? I am afraid that this quest to explore the dark side of so-called healthy eating will lead to internal acupuncture and my anus being shriveled into the shape of an 'om,' my apologies to those of you who were eating. And by eating I mean consuming something with corn syrup or a high level of sodium.

Question 3. - What the hell do you mean by "live" food?

"The *icon that would reveal exactly which restaurant this is* denotes our live (raw) offerings." Is this one of those hipster ironic things? Like, we're vegan, we eat plants, ha ha, live food. As though vegan cavemen (stretch your imaginations for just one second) would hunt and gather live roots and weeds and drag their dirt covered carcasses back to the fire where vegan cavewomen knit Grateful Dead tapestries out of vines. Live food, to me, is when you go out and kill something, thereby taking something live and making it, well, a meal. I will say that as a consumer I fully recognize the ignorant and slightly myopic nature of packaged food, as though taking a slab of flesh and wrapping it in plastic somehow makes it sterile and acceptable. I truly don't subscribe to the idea that separating a section of offal or muscle to be consumed from an animal makes it somehow more humane or compassionate on a subconscious level. Fuck that, you're eating an animal, that's what incisors are for. Accept it, embrace it. Or revile it and stop eating meat. I think that hunting is cruel but if you eat what you hunt then, really, you're at least being sincere about the whole consumption process, no? So "live" vegan food? Blow my mind or bore me. I'm confused. Entirely.

All of this reading about mock food and what it's supposed to represent made me gorge myself on Saltine crackers and water. Of course, those are two of my major sources of sustenance in preparation for vegan month, but the pasty, pasty crackers expand in my stomach like, well, like the urban legend about what happens when you feed a cat antacids. Fortunately nature (and by "nature" I mean industry) created its own form of Alka Seltzer known as the hot shower. I'm about to take one once I get home. And I'll shave my legs for a really, really long time.

(To all of my other friends who work at the joint, I apologize. You are really good people with a mission that's completely foreign to me and you are all unfairly cute so please don't hate me. And, dear rooommate, if you're reading this, there's an almond vanilla soymilk in the fridge with your name written all over it...in rabbit's blood.)

Perhaps I should just save a universal apology for the first of May.