It’s true that I am a vegetarian. As I brace myself for the inevitable “Why?” and “What made you decide to eat that way?” or the varied barrage of questions that are particularly virulent in my part of this gun totin’, meat eatin’ country, I stammer out some lame excuse about my uncle being one and I just had to try it. Had I known, at the ripe old age of 11, having decided that I was going to be a vegetarian, that I would be asked a million times, “Why?”, I would have perhaps decided otherwise or at least made up some elaborate and nasty story about my near death from poisoned meat. But the truth is, I don’t really know why I become a vegetarian. It just sounded like a good idea at the time.
I am not a true salad cruncher. I hate sprouts and cannot understand why veggie sandwiches always come on seedy wheat bread. I don’t eat meat, does that mean I can’t have a french roll too? Also I break the sacred no animal eaten law yearly, on Thanksgiving, when I go to town on a thick slice of turkey breast. And lately (I am going to whisper this so Alice & Angela, my vegetarian compatriots, don’t hear), I have become a closet bacon eater.
Bacon is the vice that tempts me, it evilly lures me in, seducing me with it’s thick chewy curls and smoky flavor. My weakness has become a bit of a family joke and recently my sister and her man made me a delicious salad spiked with juicy pieces of bacon hidden beneath the coy green lettuce leaves. I had to eat it. It would have been rude to insist that they make another, so I politely licked my plate clean.
Sometimes I worry that I am a bit of a hypocrite, that if I sneak a piece of tasty bacon every once in a while, I somehow am betraying my vegetarian values. But then I think, “what the hell…who really cares?” and I munch away.