Suck it down.

Because I am perpetually 12 years old inside, I am incapable of coming (HAH!) up with a non-pervy title for this post. Because it’s about (human) breast milk, and cheese made from the same, and the grossed-out-ness that predictably ensued when a New York restaurateur recently made said cheese from his wife’s extra milk.

Because I am a “don’t read the comments” kind of girl, I’m gonna take a wild guess at the responses:

1. Boobs are for SEX, not food! Anyone who says otherwise is either a degenerate or a hippie whackjob. (I think I might be both.)
2. Woe betide the heathen who thinks to steal a cherished food source meant for the most vulnerable among us!

To which I say: put down the moo juice, haters. (Unless it’s your own. I’m not gonna tell you what to do with your own breast milk. I mean, there’s a whole book on cooking with semen, for Chrissakes.) Are we really so skeeved out by breast milk? This is a simply beautiful demonstration of the cognitive dissonance our culture has around dairy products. Milk meant for baby cows: gimme gimme! Milk meant for baby humans: Ewwwww, gross!

[Dear parents: Please know that I have never actually seen the semen cookbook.]

When I posted the article on Facebook, a friend who has spent time in Switzerland countered the resultant histrionic flailing with the revelation that Switzerland has a breast milk café. Or perhaps it’s a café that simply offers breast-milk lattés. It’s a niche market, I’m sure, but what a refreshing idea. I’m pretty sure no one had her baby stolen in order to commandeer her milk supply. (Switzerland is also considering expanding animals’ rights by granting them the right to legal representation, but that’s another post.)

For a mature discussion, check out Kate Harding’s piece on Salon’s Broadsheet. I have a huge girl-crush on Kate Harding, and she neatly explores, from an omnivore’s point of view, why we should all stop grossing out over breast milk (and also stop thinking that we can tell women what to do with their bodies).

You didn't think you were getting out of this without some Tori Amos, did you?

More baby steps.

I totally forgot about World Vegan Day yesterday. I’m a terrible vegan, I know. Please read Stephanie’s piece here, because she is not a terrible vegan. Anyway, I already told you my vegan story.

Last night, Red and I had dinner with my parents, my sister and her boyfriend, and an old family friend. It was lovely—we had wine, pumpkin martinis, and a delicious vegan pistou soup. We caught up, shared Halloween stories, and played with the kitties. Then they had dessert.

I did not.

As you may recall, I sometimes have difficulty saying no. When my sister unveiled the adorable Halloween cupcakes she had brought, I knew I had to be strong. I wasn’t even tempted, really, which surprised me. “Can you eat these? I know sometimes you’ll eat them when I make them,” she said. She really wanted me to enjoy them. I took a deep breath, then explained that while they looked great, I wouldn’t be doing anyone any favors by eating one and giving the impression that my principles are negotiable. She pouted. “You had that rehearsed,” she said. Indeed I did, because I don’t do well on the spur of the moment. I wanted so much to make my sister happy, but I couldn’t do it. The cupcakes were beautiful, but they just weren’t food to me. They were chicks tossed into a grinder and calves wailing for their mothers. I hugged her, and I hope she understood. Once I get a cupcake pan, I’ll bake her some vegan cupcakes.

Many thanks and blessings to Marla at Vegan Feminist Agitator, who challenged me to think more deeply about my accommodating behaviors and how they prevent me from living as truthfully as I want to. It gets a little bit easier every time.

When vegans attack: domestic edition.

My filter failed again last night when Red told me he wasn’t going to continue to be vegan once his challenge ends on Tuesday. “You’re not?” I asked. He said (and he says it better than I can here) that he’s gonna give the vegetarian gig a shot. Now, this is a huge change from his current omni diet, and I should have been dancing on tables and covering him with kisses in my excitement. But, for whatever sorry-ass reason, all I could see was (what I perceived to be) his rejection of veganism as a lifestyle. Never mind that I too was once a loud-and-proud vegetarian, who slurped ice cream and flipped omelets and regularly deployed my friend Jess’ method for making the perfect grilled-cheese sandwich. No. I, in my myopia, was sad that three weeks of veganism had failed to convince my husband to quit animal products cold tofu.

Do you see how moronic I was being? Do you? LAME, Burnout, very lame. Y’all, what is wrong with me that I tear up over pictures of baby cows but then try to engage my husband in a philosophical argument about the supreme logic of veganism when he’s already made the major decision to go vegetarian? Vegetarians, I’m sorry. I try not to let the holier-than-thou gremlin out of her cage too often, but I was weak last night, and not as compassionate as I wanted to be. There are lots of differences between Red and me in the ways we experience food, and I failed to put myself in his place when I was huffing in frustration about how eating eggs and dairy still dooms animals to slaughter. He’s doing the best he can, and has made huge strides. I’ve told him that I don’t want him to do any of this for me, that if he does he’ll only end up resentful and hungry. He has to make these changes on his own schedule. I’m proud of him, but I sure did a shitty job of showing it last night.


http://www.nataliedee.com/

Please don’t feed me that.

Warning: ungrateful wretch on the loose. If you’re not into behavioral inconsistencies and awkward social situations, hie thee to a nunnery. Or someplace cooler, like Vegan Feminist Agitator.

I love everyone who has ever offered me a tempting, lovingly made dessert. It’s always desserts, too, which is the hell of it. No one ever offers me something ultra-foul like liver and onions. But, y’all, I’m stuck between animal products and a hard place here. I love desserts, and I want to please you by enjoying the dessert you made for me. But I really don’t want to eat it if it’s made with eggs or butter.

I know this completely contradicts last week’s birthday cake rant. So? I took no vow of consistency. I’m sure I will continue to struggle with this until 1) everyone in the world becomes vegan, or 2) I magically develop the willpower to say no to dessert, no matter who made it. If, on my next birthday, my mom has not disowned me for my brattiness, I can assure you that, as I’ve been doing, I will eat a piece of whatever non-vegan dessert she makes for me. Unless, of course, she makes it vegan. Then, I will eat many pieces, and buy her a bottle of vegan wine for being the best mom on Earth.

I did it again yesterday. I was at a coffee shop with a friend, happy that they had soymilk for my coffee. “You want dessert?” she asked as she paid. I didn’t. “Well, I got a big cookie for us to share.” Sigh. It was a molasses cookie, soft and chewy with sprinkles of sugar on top. I felt trapped, and guilty for feeling that way. She bought the cookie to share with me! She paid for my coffee! So I nibbled about a quarter of it (and she wasn’t kidding—it was a big cookie). I tried to get her to eat the last quarter, but she pushed it back to me, urging me to finish it. So I ate the rest, rather than throw it away. I think that unconsciously, I figured it would look ungrateful to throw it away, too, so better to just eat the damn thing and flay myself later.

The flaying, as you see, has commenced.

I engage in all sorts of psychological gymnastics in order to eat that cookie or piece of cake or whatever. But she made it for me. It’s only one cookie. It’s not like I put eggs in it. They already think I’m weird. It’s a party. I don’t want to seem snobby or ungrateful. As Marla from Vegan Feminist Agitator pointed out, it’s rationalizations like these, good-intentioned though they are, that keep me complicit in my own uncomfortable situations. I need to commit to this as strongly as I’ve committed to other, more visible aspects of my vegan lifestyle. I need to not worry so much about offending people. Unequivocally refusing meat while tacitly accepting baked goods made with animal products only serves to reinforce the idea that eating eggs and dairy is somehow “not as bad” as eating the bodies of chickens and cows. And as we all know, that’s a damn lie. Cake just looks better, that’s all.

I think I’m making baby steps. I have a delicious-looking loaf of raisin challah bread, given as a wedding present, sitting in my freezer. “You can practically smell the eggs,” my friend Jess remarked as I scrutinized the bread, wondering what to do with it. Ordinarily, Red and I probably would have just eaten it, but we had too many wedding desserts left over, and with Red doing PCRM’s vegan kickstart, we had to lay the smack down and consign it to the freezer. Anybody want? I’ll throw in a loaf of (frozen, vegan) zucchini bread to sweeten the deal.

Photos of sinfully delicious vegan Mocha Midnight Madness Cake (top) and Coconut Cream Pie (bottom) from Brunie's Bakery. The awesomeness of Brunie's desserts cannot be overestimated.