With whirled peas at stake

(Originally posted 2/18/2008)
In my mind it’s no coincidence my daughter's foray into the world of solid foods comes on the heels a huge beef recall.

Born of the combined genetic material of a vegetarian and self described “meat-atarian,” the kid was bound to be the subject of a dinnertime human taffy pull at one point or another.

But I decided while she was still in utero that my daughter would not be raised in the habit of my meat-shunning ways. This seemed to disappoint those who frown upon my lifestyle. “Are you going to let your daughter eat meat?” they’d ask, poised for attack once I answered in the negative.

“Of course,” I’d answer. “Don’t you think,” they would begin before my unexpected answer sunk in. “Oh. Well…Good,” they would finish, disappointment etching its way across their faces.

I know why they expected a fight. Vegetarians are notoriously militant about the perceived moral superiority of their eating habits. But then again, I’ve never much liked vegetarians. I realize this is an odd statement, since I elected to join their ranks nine years ago. But I’ve never been much on foisting a moral viewpoint on others. I’ve yet to see anyone badgered or guilted into changing teams in an ethical debate. Rather, it seems, if an opinion truly is righteous, good people should be able to see that and navigate those waters in their own time.

Moreover, I’ve never been of the opinion eating meat is necessarily wrong, but rather that it is wrong for me, as an individual. We come to our own ends in this life, and it’s not my place to judge anyone for enjoying what I know to be the deliciously exquisite taste of prime rib served medium rare.

Because I can make peace with it in my own heart, I have no moral conflict with cooking or buying meat for my husband, Andy. Because he likes me just a smidge more than mocking my hippie ideals, Andy will, for his part, make his own concessions at the dinner table. This includes eating the occasional casserole, chili or pot pie made with (gasp!) imitation meat. As one smarter than me once noted, "love makes us do the wacky."

So with only the sporadic power struggle when choosing between traditional and cage-free eggs, we’ve managed to co-exist for nine years as a happy, if slightly difficult to feed, couple.

And now, baby makes three.

As I said, I won’t raise our daughter, Kat, to be a vegetarian. It’s a difficult lifestyle choice and it’s hard enough to negotiate the rough and murky waters of childhood without being the freaky kid who can only eat pizza with soy pepperoni.
Additionally, figuring out the complex nutritional requirements of a diet devoid of meat, chicken and fish is tricky for an adult, let alone a little kid.

Nope, I will let Kathryn grow up as a normal, meat-loving American. And most days I’m okay with that.

Except…

Except now there’s a baby food can of puréed chicken bits in my pantry lying in wait. Yesterday, as I spooned some gelatinous green substance claiming to be peas into her grimacing face, Andy spoke to her comforting words of delicious meat products soon to come. Trying desperately to convince her that peas were yummy too, I spooned a wriggling dollop into my own mouth. I forced both a swallow and a smile. I knew in that instant it was a losing battle. How could I compete with hotdogs when I’m armed only with a green feet-smelling paste to stave off meat for a few more precious weeks?

I can’t. And I will surrender my pure, innocent child to a world which has conspired to lure her into the industrialized arms of deep-fried excess since long before her birth. But it won’t be without some sadness that I resume my status as lone herbivore of the household.

But hey, to celebrate her six month birthday Friday, I’m giving her banana-flavored slop. Maybe fruits will fare better than greens in our private food fight.

Oh well, at least we all have ice cream.