A Battle of Food Wills
OCHSA's doing a cookbook and wants all the teachers to include a recipe and then an essay, story, poem to go along with it. I decided to do vegetarian lasagna because it's just so damn good. Here's the essay. As usual, any feedback would be greatly appreciated.
I decided I wanted to be a vegetarian when I had to dissect a rat in high school. The thought of studying body parts and then going home and eating them was a bit too much for me to stomach.
My mom was less than thrilled at my announcement.
“You’ll just have to cook for yourself,” she said.
For the two weeks that we examined rats, I subsisted on quesadillas, cottage cheese, and peanut butter and jelly sandwiches: I lost ten pounds. One day at P.E. when I stood up suddenly and blacked out, I decided to return to the meat-eating portion of society.
That night at dinner, I helped myself to the pasta with Bolognese sauce. My mom, silent, smiled triumphantly.
It was the calm before the storm.
At the end of my freshman year of college, after taking an environmental science class and eating the dorm cafeteria’s meat dishes, I decided that, once again, I would forsake meat. I had been sick from the school’s chicken soup one too many times. When the cafeteria began offering a vegetarian selection for each meal, I took it as a sign and converted. By summertime though, my mom assumed I’d go back to the “right way.”
“Don’t you want some?” she’d offer, holding out a forkful of baked salmon. “It’s good.”
My stomach growled at my mom’s cooking, but I held fast. “Nope,” I’d say, picking at my salad.
“You sure?” she’d ask, her voice hopeful.
It became a battle of wills. It seemed my mother thought that this was another phase, something I would grow out of if she just waited patiently. Her solution to turning me back to an omnivore was to show off her fantastic cooking skills: fried chicken, lamb kabobs, barbequed steak, baby back ribs. When that didn’t work, she brought out the big guns, my favorites: her special hamburgers, sauerkraut and kielbasa, and, of course, her lasagna, all made an appearance for Sunday dinner.
There’s something special about a mom’s lasagna. It’s comfort food; it’s home, and my mom’s was no exception. Although simply made of cottage cheese, ground beef, spaghetti sauce, and noodles, it still held a special place in my heart. Growing up, it was my birthday request. When it made an appearance for Sunday dinner, each member of the family seemed to be that much sunnier as we waited for four o’clock to roll around. We’d make an affair out of it -- the fancy china, our silver, real napkins. And so I was faced with my vegetarian dilemma: without meat, I could have no lasagna.
We were at a standstill. In one corner, I stood with my meat-free lifestyle, while my mother stood in the other with a casserole dish full of beefy goodness.
Until, one day, the casserole dish contained broccoli instead of beef.
“I wanted to try this recipe,” she said.
Vegetarian lasagna. It seemed more complicated than my mother’s. The list, at first, seemed daunting: mushrooms, carrots, broccoli, bell peppers, two types of cheese, fresh herbs. The first time round, the prep time took longer. What with the chopping, sautéing, and mixing, it took a bit of time, but when it was ready, my mother took the dish out of the oven, and we sat around the table with the fine china, silver, and real napkins. Before us, the lasagna sat on our plates. It was colorful now, full of greens, oranges, bits of browns, and the bright white fluffiness of ricotta. The pool of grease from the meat had been replaced with the juices of the vegetables.
“I like it,” she said, “It’s not as greasy,” and quietly the meat recipe vanished with the meat-free one taking its place.
The recipe comes out for special occasions now, not just for my birthday, but for hers as well. And each time, she makes it special. She brings it out of the oven, the noodles steaming, and places it on the table. As she serves it up, the broccoli and carrots seem to be her way of saying that she accepts my new lifestyle choice, while the eggs and ricotta lets her to mutter under her breath, “thank God you’re not a vegan.”
I decided I wanted to be a vegetarian when I had to dissect a rat in high school. The thought of studying body parts and then going home and eating them was a bit too much for me to stomach.
My mom was less than thrilled at my announcement.
“You’ll just have to cook for yourself,” she said.
For the two weeks that we examined rats, I subsisted on quesadillas, cottage cheese, and peanut butter and jelly sandwiches: I lost ten pounds. One day at P.E. when I stood up suddenly and blacked out, I decided to return to the meat-eating portion of society.
That night at dinner, I helped myself to the pasta with Bolognese sauce. My mom, silent, smiled triumphantly.
It was the calm before the storm.
At the end of my freshman year of college, after taking an environmental science class and eating the dorm cafeteria’s meat dishes, I decided that, once again, I would forsake meat. I had been sick from the school’s chicken soup one too many times. When the cafeteria began offering a vegetarian selection for each meal, I took it as a sign and converted. By summertime though, my mom assumed I’d go back to the “right way.”
“Don’t you want some?” she’d offer, holding out a forkful of baked salmon. “It’s good.”
My stomach growled at my mom’s cooking, but I held fast. “Nope,” I’d say, picking at my salad.
“You sure?” she’d ask, her voice hopeful.
It became a battle of wills. It seemed my mother thought that this was another phase, something I would grow out of if she just waited patiently. Her solution to turning me back to an omnivore was to show off her fantastic cooking skills: fried chicken, lamb kabobs, barbequed steak, baby back ribs. When that didn’t work, she brought out the big guns, my favorites: her special hamburgers, sauerkraut and kielbasa, and, of course, her lasagna, all made an appearance for Sunday dinner.
There’s something special about a mom’s lasagna. It’s comfort food; it’s home, and my mom’s was no exception. Although simply made of cottage cheese, ground beef, spaghetti sauce, and noodles, it still held a special place in my heart. Growing up, it was my birthday request. When it made an appearance for Sunday dinner, each member of the family seemed to be that much sunnier as we waited for four o’clock to roll around. We’d make an affair out of it -- the fancy china, our silver, real napkins. And so I was faced with my vegetarian dilemma: without meat, I could have no lasagna.
We were at a standstill. In one corner, I stood with my meat-free lifestyle, while my mother stood in the other with a casserole dish full of beefy goodness.
Until, one day, the casserole dish contained broccoli instead of beef.
“I wanted to try this recipe,” she said.
Vegetarian lasagna. It seemed more complicated than my mother’s. The list, at first, seemed daunting: mushrooms, carrots, broccoli, bell peppers, two types of cheese, fresh herbs. The first time round, the prep time took longer. What with the chopping, sautéing, and mixing, it took a bit of time, but when it was ready, my mother took the dish out of the oven, and we sat around the table with the fine china, silver, and real napkins. Before us, the lasagna sat on our plates. It was colorful now, full of greens, oranges, bits of browns, and the bright white fluffiness of ricotta. The pool of grease from the meat had been replaced with the juices of the vegetables.
“I like it,” she said, “It’s not as greasy,” and quietly the meat recipe vanished with the meat-free one taking its place.
The recipe comes out for special occasions now, not just for my birthday, but for hers as well. And each time, she makes it special. She brings it out of the oven, the noodles steaming, and places it on the table. As she serves it up, the broccoli and carrots seem to be her way of saying that she accepts my new lifestyle choice, while the eggs and ricotta lets her to mutter under her breath, “thank God you’re not a vegan.”