Conscious Choice Seattle: Second-generation vegetarian

March 2006 | Back Words

Second-generation vegetarian

Savoring an entire life without meatballs—and with compassion

By Jolia Sidona Einstein

People often ask how long I’ve been a vegetarian. When I answer, “My whole life,” they usually look surprised and say something like, “You don’t know what you’re missing!” or, “You’ve never even tried a hamburger?” or just plain, “Really?”

Really.

Not only have I never eaten a hamburger, I’ve never eaten a hotdog. I’ve never eaten a Philly cheese steak, fried chicken, meatballs, filet mignon or any particle of any living being. Nor have I ever wanted to. I was born and raised vegetarian, born into the garden of eating.

My parents converted to vegetarianism 30 years ago. Their first son, my oldest brother Jonas, decided at age five that he was a carnivore; my brother Claude, born one year later, is the only other second-generation vegetarian I know. I imagine there are millions of us out there—we’ve just never met.

Or, maybe there aren’t so many of us as I’d like to think. Regardless, one thing is certain: more of us are born every day.

Of those who incredulously ask me, “What do you eat?” I sometimes wonder if they’ve ever savored the fragrant juiciness of a freshly-peeled lychee, or the delicate sweetness of the milk of a young coconut.

Eating is a sacred pleasure in my life. Besides the obvious no-thank-yous, I eat everything —except cooked carrots. Just as my cousin can taste the color of an M&M with her eyes closed, my tastebuds tune into the fragrant flavors of the many varieties of brown rice. I can turn tofu into a tasty breakfast scramble, quiche, ricotta cheese, sour cream, Caesar Salad dressing, Alfredo sauce, tapioca pudding or pumpkin pie. Once, I filled up on edible riverbed plants I picked during an outdoor class.

Thanks to Mom and Dad, I made it through an adolescence of summer camp, sleepovers, birthday parties at the roller rink and cafeteria food without going hungry. As I grew, so did the natural foods industry, stocking the isles with soy protein substitutes for familiar meat products I had never even eaten: Fakin’ Bacon, Un-chicken, Smoky BBQ Sauced Soy Ribs, Veggie Breakfast Sausage Links, Vegetarian Kielbasa, Sloppy Jofu, Boca Burgers.

I have no idea if these packaged products taste anything like the “real” thing, but they got me through my college years and into the world where I live today with my vegan fiancé within walking distance of three farmers markets, a raw restaurant, a vegan restaurant, several organic supermarkets and a bouquet of other veg-friendly dining options.

When I think about it, I didn’t do anything. I just kept doing what I knew all along. Every time I lift my fork, I reaffirm a decision that was handed down to me in the womb. I admire those who had to make the hard choice to go vegetarian and stick to it, to give it all up, to revise their holiday traditions and create new ones, to unlearn everything they knew and learn everything they could. I never had to experience that sense of loss; I simply sustain what has always felt right.

If someone handed me a rib-eye and said, “Here, cook this,” I’d be clueless. My mother taught me everything I know about cooking: how to use olive oil instead of butter, how to baste a Tofurkey, how to substitute crumbled tofu for feta in spinach pie, or how long to steam an artichoke so the meat of the leaf is easy to skin off with your teeth.
More importantly, she taught me compassion.

She’s always supported my oldest brother’s decision to eat meat; she speaks fondly of that five-year-old man who demanded a hamburger! She is the kind of woman who serves her own dinner plate last.

She feels sorry for deer mid-winter and buys them bags of feed. She brings home the dinner rolls from restaurants to give to the squirrels. Our six acres are a refuge for wild animals, surrounded by a forest full of hunters. Somehow, they know they are safe there.

I remember one Thanksgiving morning my mother and I laughed so hard we cried at the sight of two wild turkeys fornicating a few feet from our front porch. She’s not just my mother, but also a mother to every living creature, and to nature. Never in my life has she made me feel obligated to continue on the path she worked so hard to plough, and yet I continue to eat with compassion every day. You can take the girl out of the garden, but you can’t take the garden out of the girl.

I can’t imagine any greater gift.

Jolia Sidona Einstein is a published poet who teaches English at Santa Monica College in California.

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