¿Dónde están los huevos?

I’ve cut out dairy, start the ticker-tape and scream, “More cow…bell!”

I know, I know. It’s dairy. It has enough hormones to make me unwillingly transgender. Cows are kept in shoeboxes and have their nipples tweaked all day long. Human beings are not meant to digest dairy products. (Yet a snack such as Cheetohs, which stain our epidermis, is not looked at twice by the same fucktards who tell me this.) Also, I have my nipples pierced. I will not cry a river of melted vegan soft serve over a cow getting to rest at second base as a job. Please.

But, yeah, shock to the system, I finally phased out my Kraft singles yesterday. This after cutting out milk with my cereal (I’m now eating Cream of Wheat, another misnomer so therefore it must be vegan) and yogurt. Other than feeling like my bones might at any moment turn to dust and the pH of my girlbits could at any moment go from fresh-as-a-daisy to more-toxic-than-Fresh-Kills everything is kosher. Or, rather, parev.

Earlier in the week, when I saw myself just steps away from crossing into lactose liberation, I was feeling kind of proud. Really, whenever I successfully do anything slightly more advanced than, say, slipping on my Converse and strolling to the toilet, I give myself a great big internal chest-bump. So to celebrate I went out to a diner in order to have my favorite meal, breakfast for dinner. This month would go off without a hitch, I thought. Fuck it, maybe I’ll stay vegan after the month that hasn’t even started yet is over, just out of spite! Haha! Take that, stupid dietary restrictions that everyone pretends are sooo hard! You probably think that Scrabble is hard too! Go listen to the new Iron and Whiiiine album and silkscreen some fliers for your next bike protest rally potluck knitting coop thing.

I was so smug in my pleather booth that I barely notice when the cute waitress with the labret piercing sauntered over find out what I wanted. Well. What did I order?

Eggs.

One can argue that Easter is this weekend, that April hasn’t started, that there are a hundred other options for breakfast/dinner that are just as tasty and versatile and cheap as a chicken’s blank shot. The white-n-orange are just as delicious as pancakes (made without butter, milk, or, um, eggs…which leaves…a plate and some flour) or potatoes!

Basically it took one single swipe at revving my egg-fueled engine to get albumen on my face.

“Ains, I’m a little bit worried about this whole “going vegan for a month” thing,” my best-friend said from across the table. “I mean, I think it’s just going to be you eating, like, crackers and air.”

And so long as the crackers are matzoh I’m not only going vegan but also keeping kosher.

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.

Prep School, v.1

My knowledge of being vegan is limited to this: a vegan is a man or woman, usually between the ages of seventeen and twenty-nine, who has good hair. They often go out to eat in a group and are stared at because of their fantastically well-coordinated thrift store outfit and/or their body modification. Their menu choices are limited to water, olive oil, and questions. They cannot eat cheese. Often this is the main complaint about being a vegan. Occasionally vegans are women with long, grey hair kept in a single plait and they were many layers of skirts. Their name may incorporate a herb or a lunar phase and they are the sole purchasers of reusable maxi pads.

Reasons for becoming a vegan can vary but in my snap judgement and ignorance I have selected three categories under which they may fall:

1. Animal/Environmental Activists -- Although peppered with a bunch of jam band following, hemp necklace wearing, unshowered hackeysack enthusiasts, I think this group is perhaps the most sensible. Love an animal, save an animal, all that mushy stuff that makes for a productive summer protest. I, however, have learned that I am not an "animal lover." My ex-girlfriend's black lab mix ate my turkey sandwich one afternoon back in '99 and ever since then I've known that I am capable of truly hating something that doesn't even have prehensile thumbs or the ability to fully appreciate the brutal impact of being called a "vile ball wart."

2. The Health Nut -- Often believers of body parts called chakras* this group annoys me but also makes sense. They usually have some sound reasoning for what brought them to plant based meals, and they will often be generous enough to offer you a sample of bee cartilage or digestive yeast. My connection to these folks would be limited, simply because my eyes glaze automatically when I hear the word "yogi."

3. Hipsters -- Parents didn't love them enough, therefore they quest to be different and ironic. Fancy anorexia apparently does the trick. Along with the new Decemberists' album. Maybe I could fit into this category when I'm done making fun of mustaches and the resurgence of Ray-Bans. (Still ugly, kids.)

So there's my limited knowledge wrapped up with a lovely, sarcastic bow. The truth is, similar to some of those wild and tasty creatures I'm suddenly going to stop consuming, my claws come out when I feel fear. Voluntary starvation - like the army, training for a triathlon, and childbirth - is an activity I fear and basically believe should be avoided at all costs. But maybe this will teach me the true depths of my inability to commit to an activity, even over the course of a mere month. That will save me many graduate school application fees for sure. It might also teach me not to judge others so harshly without any verifiable information to back up my cruel, carnivorous cynicism.

* I'm not sure if these are body parts. I am sure they are not a female musician from the eighties.

No, Really, I'm Not Eating That

It started in New Seasons grocery store off of Division in Portland, Oregon. I was staring at a book titled “Becoming Vegan” which, to me, sounded like an indoctrination or a compliment. I looked around at the toothbrushes made from 100% renewable resources, the soy based faux meat products molded into the shapes of body parts, the Nag Champa incense...what was a cynical girl like me doing in a town like this? I say the word environment with the emphasis on the "ire." I think that saving the whales would be great, once I'm finished reading Perez Hilton. Green is my least favorite color unless you're adding the word "back" to it and shoving some into my pocket.

I’m also not big into things that require work. For example, work. I’m not very good at sticking to a task or one single focal point for too long of a period of time which leads me to be a scatterbrained employee and a fair-weather friend in a city where it's usually raining. Things I’ve had any sort of commitment to include, and are limited to, drinking, writing, and my best-friend Erin. I went sober on February 24^th. My best-friend Erin lives in Brooklyn, New York. That leaves writing which, really, is less of a commitment, more of a way to procrastinate from doing anything else. For example, I am writing this from my work desk. My inability to snag my heart on anything short of self-destruction and starving artistry is a bit irksome. I'm fast approaching thirty. I mean, in three years I'll practically be thirty. In three years I'd better have something to show for my attention span other than watching all of Lars Von Trier's "The Kingdom." With subtitles.

I want to find something to follow-through on, something to really sink my teeth into and clamp my jaw down on for dear life, something I can immerse myself in that is foreign to me. Extra points if this something is dangerous to my health and well-being, if it alters my general approach to life. I've decided that altering my diet is a tangible, albeit ridiculous, way of making a drastic change in lifestyle. Not since my very brief stint in high-school cheerleading has dietary restriction been looked upon as acceptable social behavior, but here in Portland I’ve noticed, the truly cool kids are vegan. The best restaurants? Vegan. Abnormally attractive men and women with tattoos? Vegan. Stickers on bikes? Many say “vegan.”

Now, I must warn all of you, especially those who consume only plant based food products, once I express interest in a fad it is usually on its last, weary legs. (Cases-in-point: my subscription to YM, my first pair of Jnco jeans, the straightedge movement circa 1997, my star tattoos.) So expect veganism to go the way of the dinosaurs and perhaps in five years I’ll be clutching at the door handle of the barbaric carnivores band-wagon. Until then, welcome to my month-long stint in veganism, scheduled to commence April 1^st, 2008. April Fools, no, really, I’m not eating that.