It's official. My dark reign of burnt-out terror is over. Even worse, he made me sound like a saint. Oh, strike me dead now, before I’m revealed as a complete and utter fraud.
Go read his blog. G’head, it’s okay (as long as you come back). It was our blog, but we never bothered to update it, so I started this one. That seemed to flip his blogging switch, and he got to posting. Which is fabulous, except when he credits me with saying things like, “Of course I want a cheeseburger sometimes, but I stand on my principles and resist temptation.” *blushes fiercely*
Did I actually say something that inane? He maintains I did, so it’s probably true. Not gonna lie: burgers smell good. So does pretty much anything else on a grill, and bacon. Yes, BACON. What else can you think of that smells as awesome as bacon? I thought so. And yeah, I miss it sometimes. Burgers and hot dogs can be faked with reliable vegan precision, but there is not yet a suitable replacement for bacon.
I gave it up anyway. You might say that there is a tiny, bacon-shaped hole in my subconscious.
Ironically, it is this occasional-but-still-craven desire that lends my convictions greater credence with my husband. (Aside: For blog purposes, I think I’ll start calling him Red House. Or maybe just Red. Like Hellboy.) I could hop up on a soapbox and declare that meat smells foul, that I will never again think longingly of dead animal flesh roasted or grilled to perfection. But I’d be a liar. I used to relish steak, and omelets, and milkshakes—and yes, bacon. When I decided that I wouldn’t eat them anymore, I didn’t automatically shut off that part of my brain that remembered them as tasty. That’s part of what makes us human: recognizing that something is desirable, but avoiding it anyway.
In one of his VegNews columns, Dan Piraro offered a list of responses to the reasons people frequently give for dismissing veganism. “Oh, I couldn’t possibly give up meat,” is a favorite excuse. His comeback? “Yeah, I used to feel the same way about high-school cheerleaders.” ZING!
Bottom line: It’s a one-day-at-a-time sort of thing. Every morning, I wake up and re-commit to compassion. Some days it’s easier than others (nibbling stale rolls and limp, overcooked vegetables at wedding receptions is super), but luckily, the days add up.