Saturday, June 03, 2006
I thought it tasted good, until I knew what it was
Ever been tricked into eating something? Ever been the one who believes in something or someone but when the truth is presented in its rudest and crudest form, been shocked and disgusted by the very flavor that made you salivate?
The soup was to die for. My grandmother’s famous soup that I remembered from childhood. She took every vegetable the Germans love and cooked it in a broth sublimely flavorful with just the right amount of salty oil. It was wholesome without being overbearing and rich without being decadent. It brought substance with russets and egg noodles, and she even threw in some snow peas and zucchini to be exotic.
She made it for me, she said. She made it special, for the vegetarian. She left out the chicken and stock and bones and assorted poultry items. I really needed some soup. Living in the city—food options aren’t the problem. But sometimes, you need a little taste of home. I raved about this soup as I ate it. I thanked her with my ooooh’s and aaaaah’s. And then I found out: she pureed the chicken. She hadn’t substituted vegetable stock for the stock she normally used.
“I had to hide carrots from your uncle for years this way,” she said, confident that I’d survive and maybe even convert back. The regression didn’t happen. I was left only with a sick feeling in the pit of my stomach that an illusion had been played out like a trick in my mind.
You think you know a person, a friend. You smile when they’re happy and hug when they’re sad. You laugh, sitting at a table, shocked and bemused with the absurdity of it all. But what happens when you realize the person you’ve cared for and loved is not what they seem. You discover their words are the illusion and the trick played is that they aren’t kind. The same things that once made you smile and shake your head now make you wonder how you got here and what’s the quickest escape.
But, as usual, you probably have no exit strategy. There’s no way to stop eating that soup without making your grandmother cry. There’s also no way to cover up the fact that instead of pureed poultry, this person has been grinding you down with each word. When you take a step back and hear them mock your recipe, you know that everything good might just be bad. You know that, boiled down, this person will reveal their meat.
When you see this, know this and recognize the flavor for what it is, how do you step back and stop it? How do you, without abandoning the past, present and future, be true to yourself? Sticking to our “guns” is not in the nature of a peace-loving vegetarian, but I plan to arm myself with a smile, some eggplant and plenty of salt and vinegar.
The soup was to die for. My grandmother’s famous soup that I remembered from childhood. She took every vegetable the Germans love and cooked it in a broth sublimely flavorful with just the right amount of salty oil. It was wholesome without being overbearing and rich without being decadent. It brought substance with russets and egg noodles, and she even threw in some snow peas and zucchini to be exotic.
She made it for me, she said. She made it special, for the vegetarian. She left out the chicken and stock and bones and assorted poultry items. I really needed some soup. Living in the city—food options aren’t the problem. But sometimes, you need a little taste of home. I raved about this soup as I ate it. I thanked her with my ooooh’s and aaaaah’s. And then I found out: she pureed the chicken. She hadn’t substituted vegetable stock for the stock she normally used.
“I had to hide carrots from your uncle for years this way,” she said, confident that I’d survive and maybe even convert back. The regression didn’t happen. I was left only with a sick feeling in the pit of my stomach that an illusion had been played out like a trick in my mind.
You think you know a person, a friend. You smile when they’re happy and hug when they’re sad. You laugh, sitting at a table, shocked and bemused with the absurdity of it all. But what happens when you realize the person you’ve cared for and loved is not what they seem. You discover their words are the illusion and the trick played is that they aren’t kind. The same things that once made you smile and shake your head now make you wonder how you got here and what’s the quickest escape.
But, as usual, you probably have no exit strategy. There’s no way to stop eating that soup without making your grandmother cry. There’s also no way to cover up the fact that instead of pureed poultry, this person has been grinding you down with each word. When you take a step back and hear them mock your recipe, you know that everything good might just be bad. You know that, boiled down, this person will reveal their meat.
When you see this, know this and recognize the flavor for what it is, how do you step back and stop it? How do you, without abandoning the past, present and future, be true to yourself? Sticking to our “guns” is not in the nature of a peace-loving vegetarian, but I plan to arm myself with a smile, some eggplant and plenty of salt and vinegar.
