One Beef After Another With Vegetarianism

To eat meat or not to eat meat, that’s my question in ’95.

While most people are busy stuffing rice cakes down their throats, I have decided to try vegetarianism. In my 35 years on this planet I have done grapefruit diets, water fasts and Deal a Meal plans, but it’s time to wake up and smell the tofu. No easy feat for a native Texan who grew up eating goat fajitas, but I want to give it a whirl anyway. I vow to bless the beasts, not barbecue ‘em.

Sans makeup, clad in rubber shoes and reeking from the aroma of grass oil, I head to the natural grocery store and load up on barley, rye crackers and other bark-like products. I pore over the digestive benefits of wheat grass. When I arrive home and lay the delicacies across the kitchen counter, my Fred Flintstone of a husband asks, “Where’s the beef?”

I was hardly surprised. One of his favorite Christmas gifts of all time was a monogrammed meat branding iron. Hoping to appease him, I lead him to the freezer, where an ample supply of frozen chunks of Bambi, Lamb Chop and other formerly furry flesh lies in wait. Fred pipes down and licks his chops. Later, when a Ralph’s butcher department commercial comes on, he ponders a second career in the meat sciences.

I stay meat- and even seafood-free for three days. A cocktail party breaks my winning streak. It is the kind of soiree where med students named Chip circulate with silver trays of tempting goodies. The heady aromas of chicken and beef seductively waft as I appease myself by sucking on the lime of my meatless margarita. Soon enough, a tray of skewered beef lands under my appreciative nose.

“No, thank you,” I say firmly, basking in the nobility of self-deprivation. A companion appears puzzled, so I explain my newfound conviction to her, hoping she will understand.

“Oh, come on ,” she says as her eyebrows dance and little devil horns begin to sprout on her head. “My Buddhist grandmother was vegetarian. It’s boring. Have some beef!”

With apologies to Elsie the cow, I surrender.

The beefy nugget lands on my tongue and my primal teeth shred it to bits. The intermingling flavors of beef and tequila take me back to a wild Texas night when I gave little thought to eating the worm. I salivate like one of Pavlov’s puppies as I contemplate another, then I realize how easily I had been seduced! I vow not to succumb again.

Four more days of spinach, stir fry tofu and peanut dumplings pass. There are some surprises. I seem to have more energy with this veggie diet, but I contemplate adding monastic robes to my wardrobe.

By day, I see visions of making Easter dinner starring nut loaf and lentil pilaf. But by night, Fred’s Whopper Breath begins to fire the fuels of passion. Visions of Fatburger dance in my head.

When I finally snap, it is rapidly and with little forethought. Driving by the Wienerschnitzel, I see a big red sign. Since experts say the color red stimulates appetite, I know I am in trouble. Written in French’s Mustard yellow are the words: Corny Dog 59. I bolt into the right lane and before I know it, the gooey juices of Porky Pig are trickling down my delighted throat. I devour it, relishing every bite as if each will be my last.

The funny thing is, I hate hot dogs.

As proof that deprivation makes us fall victim to craziness, I’m combing the health food markets for veggie beef jerky. In the meantime, I’m armed with imitation bacon bits to stave off the madness.

But it’s my revamped Sarte mantra that keeps me honest: “The unexamined McNugget is not worth eating.”