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I guess I just needed a little push to eat a more plant-based diet.
I’ve been driving around with a “buy local” decal probably since the day it was first printed.
I have always bought my t-shirts from The Green Room and my sweaters from Nochi and my books at Edgartown books (well one from Amazon and three from Matt). But food? Local? Until I was diagnosed with the ubiquitous Alpha-gal allergy, buy local was just a sticker.
I have always wanted to be a vegetarian. I liked the people who were vegetarians. I liked the idea of being conscious of what I was eating. I liked thinking of myself as an animal lover.
My own husband, Joel, said (about 47 years ago), “I’m done eating meat.” He had read an article that noted that cows were responsible for much of the methane that was destroying the environment, and that it took a huge amount of water and land to feed cows. Those were the major reasons he would be abstaining.
None of those reasons meant anything to me. He might as well have told me that hairspray was hurting the ozone. (Oh, right, he did tell me that, too.) Well, he might as well have told me peppermint ice cream and hot fudge could cause kidney failure. (I would have reminded him that I have two kidneys.)
But when it came to meat, to me, the smell of a ribeye on the grill was the smell of success. In the ‘50s (or maybe it was just in my family), eating steak meant that you were financially secure. The fact was, we weren’t financially secure; but steak was the one indulgence my parents felt was worth a major sacrifice.
Now, after all these years of Joel’s not eating meat (not rigidly, but responsibly), and after all these years of my craving it and regularly answering those cravings, I tested positive for Alpha-gal syndrome. A lone star tick got me, and lo and behold, I, too, am done with meat. I’m done with pork (oh my God, bacon!) (please don’t tell the rabbi) and lamb (oh my God, popcorn lamb chops!) and roast beef (oh my God, a thick, rare slab of it served with Yorkshire pudding!).
Maybe even worse, I had to give up dairy. No more heavy cream in my coffee? Are you kidding me? For years, I’ve gone to sleep like a child anticipating Christmas morning, imagining tomorrow’s Häagen-Dazs-like cup of java. And cheese? No Parmigiano Reggiano on my spaghetti? Now I am looking for a reason to go on living.
Desperate for something resembling good news, I started researching what was left on my depressingly skimpy new diet. First I bought two of Cathy Walthers’ cookbooks: Soups and Sides and Kale, Glorious Kale.
Who knew that soups were filling, and that making them could feel like a creative act? And greens that are fresh? Oh my lord! How could I have gone for so long without knowing how fabulous they are? Now I have a special massage table for my kale (glorious kale!). I make a kale salad that includes toasted slivered almonds, yellow raisins, olive oil, apple cider vinegar, and honey, and I’m telling you, I think I should get a Nobel Prize for this dish.
Since I can still have chicken, I decided to try local chicken, and I learned that farms all over this Island (including North Tabor Farm, Morning Glory Farm, and Mermaid Farm) have just what the doctor ordered. There is no comparison between store-bought chicken (even free-range) and local, pasture raised chicken — local chicken just tastes … way more chickeny. And eggs? Now I wouldn't think of eating an egg that didn't come from one of “our” chickens. (I know I use the word “our” loosely. I know I don't own a farm. But suddenly I am feeling very proprietary.) Eggs you buy in the grocery store are generally a few weeks old already. Fresh, local eggs have whites that stand up in the pan rather than running all over the place.
I’ve practically set up a cot and moved into Ghost Island Farm. It’s there that I go for my basil (which I can’t find anywhere else). They have russet potatoes that are huge and have no black yukkies. I get all my greens, my shiitake mushrooms, my kim chi, and my butternut squash from Ghost Island. Which is not to say that I don’t frequent the Island’s other farms: I get my bread from Beetlebung and my curry paste from Grey Barn.
So I have to thank Alpha-gal for forcing me to switch away from Big Ag beef to a local, plant-based (and chicken) (and fish) lifestyle.
I feel better on my new diet, and (if I don’t look in the mirror) I look better. And I am definitely living better.
I’m thinking of adding a P.S. to my buy local sticker. It will read: I really mean this.
