Veganism

Last week I was suspended from Twitter and subsequently plummeted headlong into a deep depression. What would I do with my life now? At first there was a little solace in the fact that Titania had also had her account deactivated, but then she got hers back and has been crowing over it ever since. Just goes to show, trans women are the most targeted and vulnerable people in society today. On Saturday morning, having spent the past few days feeling oppressed and marginalized, I decided I needed a pick-me-up and headed out to treat myself to a detoxifying smoothie from Floozy Suzie’s Juice Bar. Floozy is a friend of mine from uni who works as a drag queen by night and pulped superfood vendor by day.

Veganism is upon us. Something which was a minority dietary choice five years ago is now mainstream, a seemingly unstoppable bandwagon. I’m not here to discuss its merits, whether ethical, environmental or dietetic; the jury is still out. What interests me is the etiquette. I have fed guests at my table for more than 50 years, and many of them have been vegetarians. No problem. Perhaps I’ve been blessed with particularly lovable vegetarian friends, but somehow their food preferences have always trumped my own carnivorous tendency and we all eat vegetarian. I hated the idea of serving separate dishes. Veganism turns up the dial. It is, frankly, a cook’s nightmare.

This article is in The Spectator’s February 2020 US edition. Subscribe here. The children are eating eggs and bacon by the time I make it downstairs. A pair of frozen hash browns sits lonely on the plate at the head of the table. They have been cooked in a separate pan, one greased in vegetable oil rather than butter. I scold myself for the bitter glare I cast upon the urchins crying ‘Good morning, Daddy!’ They cannot know that the crisp pork fat and fried eggs lie on their plates only because Daddy has agreed to go vegan for the amusement of Spectator readers. The English never seem to tire of starving the Irish. At least there are potatoes this time around. Vegans forsake leather in their belts, wool in their coats and any animal product in their mouths.

This article is in The Spectator’s November 2019 US edition. Subscribe here. It’s summer in Wokeville, California, and the denizens congregate in their backyards, popping open craft beers and passing around kelp-flavored rice chips as the Beyond Meat burgers sizzle on the solar-powered grill. As Brad Paisley would say, it’s just another American Saturday night. Er. Wait. Not sure I caught that right. Backyards, yes. Craft beer, yes. Rice chips, well, OK. But did you say Beyond Meat? I am sorry to report this, dear residents of Everywhere Else, but yes, that’s what’s cooking in Wokeville these days.