This new vegan lifestyle I’ve taken has been much better than I thought it would be. I haven’t had any crazy desires to break into the nearest Denny’s and grab the collar of the patron wolfing down the Grand Slam breakfast, screaming, “LET ME SMELL YOUR BACON BREATH, MAN!” Even though that would be weird because Denny’s is open 24 hours a day and I’m sure I would be appeased if I calmly walked in, approached anyone at the counter and said, “Excuse me, dear sir. I noticed that you ordered both the bacon strips and the sausage links. Could you please breathe in my direction?” I would probably successful if I implied there would be a hand-j involved. WHAT?
Some days are easier than others. This weekend, I really missed fried chicken, fried rice, and sweet and sour chicken. Especially since I watched my husband eat all those dishes. But save for those meat mournings, I’ve accepted that this is the way it is. It’s like no matter how many times I watch Fast and the Furious: Tokyo Drift, I will never get my wimpy sedan to gun up to those speeds. My issues with food are my own. Other people can eat fried chicken and potato salad without bloating to the size of Kathie Lee Gifford’s deluded ego. I can accept that.
Thank you so much for the support. I am on the hunt for recipes that taste enough like my old carnivorous life, so I won’t be crying into my bowl of couscous and planning a funeral for all the foods I used to eat.
What isn’t hard is watching my son at the local wading pool, going beserk whenever he runs into the water.