Man does not live by words alone, despite the fact that sometimes he has to eat them.
~Adlai E. Stevenson II
As a vegetarian, my husband Michael stands firm on his meatless convictions and flaunts his supper snobbery by eating alternative meals each night. He eschews turkey, pork, beef, and on more than one occasion, has referred to chicken as “a fowl thing to eat.” Anything that has a face is off-limits, never to touch his pristine lips. Hoping to herd us into his meat-free camp, he glances at our dinner plates and shares sordid tales about the slaughterhouse that once corralled our T-bone steaks. I shoot him the I’m-not-deterred-by-your-hormone-horror-story glance and place my fork to my mouth, enjoying my beef tips — savory and hardy — while he stabs at his bowl of leafy greens, so lifeless and limp, searching for substance.
But I still love the guy and worry if he’ll have enough to eat every time I grill a porterhouse. Priding myself on my culinary skills, I’ll admit that his refusal of my gourmet meals baffles me as he eats a peanut butter sandwich while the rest of us dine on pork chops stuffed with couscous, currants, and toasted pine nuts. Thanksgiving makes me even more anxious, and I triple the number of side dishes to make up for the absence of turkey in his tummy. In short, his eating habits are a pain in my rump roast.
As if meals at home aren’t a big enough problem, his self-imposed food limitations affect our social life. Before being seated at a restaurant, Michael critiques the menu on its vegetarian friendliness. “No, thanks,” he says, and hands the menu back to the hostess. “Not much for me here.”
And we leave the restaurant.
Once settled at an acceptable establishment, Michael sets to work, creating his culinary masterpiece through rearrangement, deletion, or substitution.
He scrutinizes the breakfast menu. “Can I forgo the bacon in today’s special?”
The question throws off the waitress, and she says, “I’ll have to ask the cook. I think the quiche is pre-made.”
“Never mind,” Michael says, recalculating. “What about substituting the side of sausage for one of your whole wheat pancakes?”
The waitress scribbles on her note pad. “I’ll have to ask the manager.”
Annoyed, Michael points to the picture of the sausage link. “I’m fairly certain this here costs more than a pancake, right?”
“Probably.”
“Then it’ll be saving you money.”
“Yes, and I’m sure it won’t be a problem.” She smiles. “But I still have to ask.”
“That’s okay. Forget it.” He flips the menu back open.
“I really don’t mind asking.” Her eyes dart to the left, distracted by the hostess seating a large family in her station. Michael has obviously exceeded the time limit for ordering.
Michael sighs, as if he, too, is exhausted by the effort. “Why don’t you go ahead and ask then.”
The waitress turns to me, and I’m tempted to ask for whatever is left over in the back to make up for the previous complications. “The Southwest omelet,” I blurt, keeping it simple.
She hesitates, thinking I must have similar food hang-ups to be married to the man who reads menus as if they’re battle plans. But I remain silent.
“That’s it?” she asks, her shoulders relaxing.
I nod, and my food arrives first, which I believe is no accident.
Over the years, the guests at our dinner parties have dwindled as most have voiced their tofu trepidation or, as my father claims, an abhorrence to that “slimy, rubbery, tasteless crap.” Whenever we’re invited to family get-togethers, the night grows awkward as Michael places his hand over his plate and rejects the hostess’s edibles. Out of guilt, she offers him a substitute meal.
“No, no,” he says. “I don’t want to be a bother.”
I silently call malarkey, remembering the thousands of alternative provisions I’ve prepared for him over the years.
The hostess scurries to the kitchen to whip up something less offensive to his taste buds, not only feeding his appetite but also his ego.
On the way home, I place a to-go bag of cookies behind the driver’s seat and catch a glimpse of a few small plastic packets. I reach under the seat and retrieve them. Shocked, I crouch behind the seat as my hostility boils over like a pot of beef-laden chili. I contemplate how I’ll confront Michael without punching him in the throat.
I pop up from behind the seat. “What are these doing in your car?”
“What?” he asks, playing innocent.
I dangle the packets in his face. Caught committing a culinary crime, he shifts his gaze to the dashboard, and I stare at the packets of Arby’s Sauce and Horsey Sauce, feeling like a jilted chef. “At the very least, you owe me the truth,” I say. “How long have you been hittin’ the sauce?”
“A few years,” he whispers.
“How often?” I ask, bracing myself for the full extent of his cheating.
“A couple times a month.”
“So, all this time that you’ve been requesting special meals each night, you’ve been a closet carnivore?”
He sighs. “Look, once in a while I need a quick protein hit, okay?”
“Quite the dirty little secret you’ve got going on here.” I picture him ditching his fast food bags in the neighbor’s recycling bin before pulling into our driveway, then heading straight to the bathroom to brush and floss the roast beef residue from between his teeth.
I look him in the eye. “I believe you have a problem, Michael.”
He stares straight ahead.
“Are you willing to go to AA?”
“AA? What are you talking about?” he asks.
“Arby’s Anonymous,” I say before buckling over with laughter.
Word eventually got out, and it wasn’t long before Michael became the pork butt of family jokes. These days, while the kids and I “ooh” and “ahh” over our rotisserie chicken, he eats a quinoa salad, attempting to re-establish himself as a strict vegetarian. The dinner charade continues, but he doesn’t fool us. We smile, knowing he probably scarfed down a smoked brisket not an hour before.
~Cathi LaMarche
