Visiting Vegan
A devout carnivore’s journey into the unknown
Story and illustrations by Cole Sandhofer
This initially began as a question of why a person would choose to eat a strict vegan diet, but became something so much more. I realized how doable this whole vegan thing is and my eating habits changed drastically because of it.
Sure, it takes some willpower to not eat a slice of pizza when offered to you at 1 a.m. on a drunken night, but over the course of just three weeks, my responses to such situations have changed from “I can’t” to “No, thank you.”
I worried being vegan would prevent me from enjoying everything I wanted to, but it has actually opened me up to new foods, experiences and people. Opening ourselves up to the unknown is how we grow as individuals. And sometimes the best way to find something new, is to get rid of something old.
My Vegan Voyage Sets Sail
Perusing the shelves of Trader Joe’s, I’m realizing how little attention I’ve paid to the ingredients of the products I buy. It’s frustrating to find that the milk and eggs duo love to sneak their way into damn near everything.
Unpacking my bags at home, I take inventory of my herbivorous haul. Coconut creamer to impersonate my dearly missed half-and-half, bagels, rice, pita bread and lots of fruits and veggies. A bit intimidated by the products I have no experience with: vegan butter and soy chorizo. They seem sacrilegious, like they shouldn’t exist.
For dinner I decide on a collegiate classic, a bowl of cereal. Gluten-free Cocoa Crunch and vanilla soy milk, which tastes earthy and eerily similar to psychedelic mushrooms, not very much like the Cocoa Puffs I’m cuckoo for. I opt for banana chips instead and find that I am a big fan.
Feeling a bit entitled, but only because this vegan thing takes some effort. I haven’t spent this much time reading in a grocery store since I used to try to get through as much of MAD as I could before my mom finished shopping and undoubtedly refused to buy a $7 magazine for me.
Already planning my return meal.
Harsh Reality Check
The coconut creamer is a nice addition to my morning coffee, but definitely lacks a certain pizzazz only dairy cream can provide. The Cocoa Crunch tastes way more like Cocoa Puffs today, and I wonder if my tastebuds are evolving. Probably just getting desperate.
My first true test of will is work in a kitchen filled with animal products. As a part-time prep cook in a retirement home I usually just eat what the old folks do.
I sustain myself through lunch with my trusty banana chips and a plate of rice which the chef assured me is free of anything that would taint my temporary purity.
Dinner is patty melts, which requires the cooking of bacon. Being trapped in that kitchen is torture. The smell is more like a pheromone than a scent. There is no god, and if there is, they’ve got a sick sense of humor. I’m curious if my meat tolerance break will decrease my intake in the future. I just hope I don’t overdo it when I relapse.
A buddy tells me that beans are the lifeblood of the vegan people, I guess they are a flatulent bunch. He is a non-vegan, so I suppose I should verify that sentiment, although I think he is sleeping with a vegan.
I wonder how being vegan will affect my dating life. All my usual spots have been barred to my new form. Maybe Russian dumplings? What are those made out of? Probably eggs. Shit.
The Rye-teous One
I also work for a catering company, another position not tailored to the vegan-inclined, and find myself serving some of my most treasured old friends. Not the guests; breakfast for dinner. An enticing spread of bacon, french toast, biscuits and gravy. Or as I prefer to refer to them, “The Temptations.” Not to be confused with the ’60s Motown vocal group, but equally as seductive.
My will is tested further the following day, as the old folks home presents me with my biggest challenge yet.
The dreaded Reuben. Perhaps, no, undoubtedly the greatest combination of meats and cheeses to ever find it’s way situated between two pieces of bread.
And of course there is a tray of leftover sandwiches. A small army of dangerous enticements that I just can’t resist. I load up three sandwiches to take, and stare longingly into the grease soaked styrofoam treasure chest when I get home.
And then, by something that can only be explained as divine intervention, I offer them to my roommates.
How does one apply for sainthood? Because I feel as though that act of pure selflessness should automatically qualify me.
Settling In
Seven days free of sustaining myself on animal torture and environmental tragedy, I am happy to report that all systems are functioning normally.
Going to class without a shower today, as I lost track of time cramming my homework into the morning of the day it is due. I can’t help but snicker at the Western stereotype I am becoming, vegan and unbathed.
I’m feeling good, possibly better than usual. Maybe it’s placebo. Maybe it’s the serene blissfulness one feels right before they succumb to death by meat deprivation.
This whole experience is definitely making me more skeptical. Did you know that Worcestershire sauce has anchovies in it? Gelatin is in practically everything and is made from bone collagen, whatever the hell that is.
I’m not mad, but I think a bit more transparency would be nice. I suppose it wouldn’t be great for the marshmallow industry if people were sitting around a campfire thinking about all the animal collagen stuffed into their golden-brown sugar globs.
My roommate tries some of my vegan cheddar. Tastes like wet Doritos but with a more pungent cheese essence; a unique product that I cannot say that I’m a fan of. My roommate does not like it either.
Dietary Dating
I’m using this whole thing to my advantage by playing the clueless transitioning vegan card. Swindling a girl into making me pancakes free of their usual milk and egg additions.
We walk to the Community Co-op together for blueberries and once there I feel right at home. These are my people now. A tribe of plant-based animal-alternative individuals all in a common pursuit to eat healthy food that doesn’t taste like dog shit. This place has everything. Dozens of milk, but-not-milk, milks and aisles upon aisles of products all sporting the coveted “V,” signifying a product is vegan and authorized to enter my mouth.
I will return to this promised land once my bank account doesn’t resemble my GPA, which admittedly isn’t too impressive either.
It seems the best approach to veganism, as with most things, is to go into it with a lot of money. I’m not saying you can’t do it easily for cheap, I’m just saying the good stuff costs more. The rich suffer less for their sacrifices I suppose.
She invites me back to try her veggie fajitas in the near future. Hopefully it happens before I conclude my vegan venture and she sees me for the meat-eating maniac I really am. What if we hit it off and I just kept up this schtick forever? God what a terrible thought.
The Helpful Herbivore
My most informative conquest since infiltrating the plant-based regime is a meal with Simon, a real-deal vegan. Simon has been off the animal-products for six months, and I figure his insights may be helpful in combating my cluelessness.
I enjoy a dinner of vegan manicotti with him and his girlfriend, Amanda, and everything I thought I knew about Italian food is turned upside-down.
I’m initially skeptical. I mean, vegan ricotta? Come on now. If the vegan cheddar I had tried was any indication, the vegans had some work to do in the cheese sector. But an emulsified blend of tofu, cauliflower and soy milk transforms into a pasta stuffing that could convert even the most fundamental Italian grandmother. This ricotta doesn’t just taste like it’s dairy-based counterpart, It’s better. Maybe it’s just the copious amounts of boxed wine we prefaced the meal with, but hey, when in Rome.
Simon has always been an adventurous eater. I recall a specific instance in which he dehydrated pickle slices in an attempt to make pickle chips, turning our kitchen into a chemical war zone punishable by the Geneva Convention. But I am happy to see that his creative culinary endeavors are not stifled by his abandonment of animal products. He does not feel that his vegan diet requires sacrificing good food. Quite the opposite in fact, as he has become a fanatic about foods he would never have tried otherwise. It’s kind of adorable to watch him get so excited about all these foreign fares.
A contagious excitement that I’m not sure I’ve ever felt.
Bee-trayed
My vegan oath has been violated. I broke it, or rather, had it broken for me.
My roommate was surprised at how tasty his discount mead tasted and insisted I try it. I thought people hadn’t drank that stuff since before we figured out washing our hands was a good idea, but being a lover of all things inebriating, I gave it a sip. I asked him what mead is and as I was swallowing the antiquated elixir, he uttered a word I’d never been so offended by: honey.
I guess those dark age drunkards had created mead by fermenting bee vomit in water, and now my vegan excellence is spoiled.
Now I’ve heard all the controversy over vegans and honey, the emergence of beegans and the environmental implications of alternatives like agave nectar, but you can’t fool me. I know bees are animals and I know their product is honey and that makes me a non-vegan monster.
At least I feel bad about it and didn’t use it to justify a burger bender.
Vegains
Something strange happened. I reached the two week mark, the day I had been looking forward to for two weeks and I stayed vegan.
I drank my morning coffee with cashew milk, my new go to not-from-an-udder creamer and prepared a bagel for breakfast. Maybe I was just subconsciously trying to make up for the mead fiasco. But one day turned into two, and two into three, and at that point I began to freak out a little.
Who was this person actively choosing to abstain from the foods he once loved? The food he dreamed about eating just days ago.
I was never really one to give a hoot about animal rights, at least not at the expense of cheeseburgers. So why was I now avoiding all cheeses and burgers? Initially I think I was fearful I would get sick when I went back to eating normally, like how one turd can ruin everyone’s day at the local pool. But I realized that I simply don’t need to eat animal products and honestly don’t want to.
It’s a joy cooking for myself and watching my friends enjoy something that I’ve made while I remind them for the hundredth time that, “It’s totally vegan!” Why eat food with so much of a stigma behind it, when I can just whip up a skillet of potato curry and not feel like garbage for the two hours that follow a fast food feeding frenzy.
There is something about eating a vegan diet that makes me feel better. Maybe it’s the self-assurance that I’m living ethically and consciously, but more likely I think it’s just the fact that I’ve made a decision, and I’m sticking with it.
