Category: Vegetarian

A 25 Cent Smile

9/8/2017

If you thought this post was about how my teeth got to be straight for 25 cents... I have bad news. My parents will be the first to tell you my Invisalign in high school cost more than 25 cents.

No, I was baking for my co-workers this week (pretty usual) and it got me thinking about my evolution of baking (unusual). For some reason, I felt compelled to write about it. So forgive me. This could be very boring.

I've always loved sweets, but never more than during my first job in Kentucky. I would buy a roll of cookie dough at Kroger, bake it and proceed to eat the entire batch. Sometimes I shared them with my friends on UNO nights... sometimes.

Slowly, I started bringing that roll of cooked dough and a few other "made from a box" baked goods into the office. I eventually learned how to make buckeyes for my meteorologist on Ohio State game days... when he was trapped at work (oh, the glorious weekend night shift).

Bringing my sister her birthday "cake."

In Texas, I changed. I became a baker from scratch. No more pre-made cookie dough rolls for me. I got a Kitchen Aid Mixer and the title "Betty Crocker" from my co-workers.

I could turn out 7 dozen cookies a night. And since no human being can/should eat that much, it all started going to the office.

Here's what I learned at NBC, mixing simple ingredients, just flour, sugar and butter, can really change someone's day. Honestly, bring a cake to your next meeting at work and see if the mood doesn't get a little happier.

It's the same in D.C. The only difference is I rarely eat what I make - just a taste to make sure it's edible.

The real reward now is giving whatever I bake away - especially to my co-workers - and seeing their reactions. Like this message from my assignment editor when I brought in dirt pudding Tuesday:

Did you make that Pyrex dish full of evil sorcery by the break room?"

My executive producer in Texas asked me once why I baked for them so much. I told him it's a way to make someone smile... for less than 25 cents.

1 Comment

I'm Not a Vegetarian, I Just Don't Eat Meat

3/8/2017

16 Comments

Nothing causes me more discomfort than having the following conversation.

Person: I didn't know you were a vegetarian.
Me: I'm not. I just don't like to eat meat.
Person: Oh, so you're a pescatarian?
Me: No, I don't like fish either.
Person: So you're a vegetarian.

Why do I hope a conversation like this never comes up between you and me? A: After six years, I'm still in denial that I'm a vegetarian. And B: If I think it's strange I don't eat meat, then I just assume you do too.

Plus, this conversation always happens at the worst time. Like when you've made dinner for me and then suddenly learn I'm only going to eat the bread and pickle off the sandwich.

In fact, I keep this fact about me so quiet that my uncle only realized this fall that I don't eat meat. Meanwhile, we've eaten dozens of meals together over the last six years.

With my sisters at the beach.

I blame the ocean for my dislike of eating the insides of animals. It started back in grade school when I was with my family on a beach vacation.

One night at dinner, both dad and I ordered shrimp. Mine was of the popcorn variety: tiny shrimp, heavy batter coating. Dad's was of the fresh-off-the-boat variety: heads, tails, and shell included. I vividly remember sitting there watching dad pop off the shrimps' heads on the other side of the table.

"What are you eating?" I asked.
"Shrimp," Dad said.
"And what am I eating?" I asked.
"Shrimp," he said again.

Well, that was all I needed to hear. I pushed my kid's basket of shrimp to the middle of the table and was done with popcorn shrimp for the rest of my life.

Secondly, I blame my Grandma Rose (whom I love dearly).

Grandma Rose grew up on a farm and saw how the sausage was made. Literally. Growing up, I ate dinner at my grandparents house almost every Wednesday from first grade until I graduated high school. Every meal included a story from grandma about how that chicken/turkey/bacon/etc came to sit on our plates. Every bloody detail.

What sealed the deal though was a mission trip to Haiti in 2011. Talk about connecting the process of how the meat made it to my plate. That chicken roaming there? That's dinner. Umm, gross. The priest nicknamed me "Skippy" because all I ate that trip was Skippy or Jif Peanut Butter Sandwiches.

Do I wish I ate meat? Sure do. My goodness, I'm from a small farming community in Ohio. My friends and their parents need you to eat meat for their livelihood.

But where you see a perfectly grilled steak, my mind pictures the raw insides of a cow. Where you see BBQ chicken wings, I see the chickens on my grandma's farm frantically running around after losing their heads.

My typical grocery store purchases. Except usually just one bunch of bananas.

The part I like least about being a vegetarian is how it causes people around me worry what to feed me.

Case in point: house parties. I never make vegetarian requests (remember, I'm still in denial that I'm a vegetarian), but hosts still seem to worry about me getting enough to eat. Look, I'm not going to waste away from one meal. Just give me two helpings of dessert and we'll call it even.

Ok, good. We've made it to the end of this post. Now maybe I will never have the dreaded "Yes, I Don't like Meat" conversation again. Ok, fine. The "Yes, I'm a Vegetarian" conversation.

16 Comments

A 25 Cent Smile

I'm Not a Vegetarian, I Just Don't Eat Meat

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