A Carnivore's Confession
One evening in early January, I was trolling through my email, when I came across a recipe sent by my
sister Judy, the vegan. Now, anyone who knows me knows I’m a carnivore, but Judy’s been trying to convert
me for years. I’ve teased her mercilessly about her Evil Vegan Ways, but, bless her, she just doesn’t give
up. This recipe was for a Vegan Vanilla Cake. Just to be fair, I thought I’d at least read the recipe before
hitting the delete key. But dinner came first.
My homemade hasenpfeffer had finished its final simmer, so I filled up my plate, popped the top on a cold
one, settled down by my computer, and started to read. Except for the lack of eggs, butter, and sugar, her
recipe didn’t sound too bad. Sure, there were some ingredients I had never heard of before, but I figured
they wouldn’t affect the flavor all that much. Hey, I thought. It’s got vanilla in it. How bad can it be?
As I came to the end of Judy’s email, I saw it, and my jaw dropped:
Judy had cyber-challenged me with a cyber-slap of her cyber-glove to my cyber-face. Naturally, my
competitive cyber-juices started flowing.
“You’re on!” I cried, blood dripping from my chin as I sucked the last morsel of flesh from a bunny bone – a
bunny I had killed with my bare hands, squeezing the life out of its little furry neck as it struggled vainly in
the cruel jaws of the leg trap I had set, simply for the pleasure of watching it die.
I finished dinner, cleaned up my plate, pounded down the rest of the six-pack, and promptly forgot about
the whole thing.
Fast forward to Friday, February 13th, about 10:30 PM.
It struck me like a knife in the chest. Damn, I thought. Tomorrow’s Valentine’s Day. I’m supposed to see my
‘Hunny’ first thing in the morning, too. I’ve got no flowers, no candy…nothing. And all the stores are closed.
What am I gonna do?
Suddenly, just like someone yanking a knife out of my chest, I remembered Judy’s recipe. Yes! I thought. I’ll
bake her a cake. Women love that sorta thing. I’ll be a hero; get some points back. Let’s just hope Judy’s
recipe doesn’t suck.
I hurried to my pantry (well, actually half a shelf in a kitchen cupboard) to see if I had all the necessary
ingredients.
Vanilla? Check. Raisins? Check. Baking powder? Check. NoSalt? Ch... Huh? What the hell is that? Oh. I
know. She probably means pepper. Check. Oat bran? Damn. I’ve got some stale Cheerios. That’ll do.
Check. Filtered water? Filtered water? What the hell’s wrong with tap water? Screw that. She’ll never know
the difference. Check. Brown rice syrup... vanilla soy milk... organic coconut oil... Tofu? Friggin’ tofu? Shit.
I’m screwed.
Only I wasn’t screwed. I should have known. The Peoples’ Republic of Ann Arbor may not have 24-hour
florists or confectioners, but it has 24-hour Healing Crystal Shops, 24-hour Copper Bracelet shops and
24-hour Aromatherapy Practitioners. Why wouldn’t it have at least one 24-hour organic food shop? It did –
the Hole Foods Market.[1]
I wrote out my shopping list, hopped into my car, and sped off to the store.
As I pulled into the parking lot, I couldn’t help noticing that it didn’t look like that of your typical Kroger’s or
Safeway. Not a single SUV in sight. There were more bicycle racks than parking spaces and what few cars
there were (all foreign, low emission-types) were sporting “No War,” “Impeach Bush,” or “Free the Chicago
Seven” bumper stickers. I backed my rusty, oil-smoking Saturn into the parking spot at the end of the lot,
making sure my American flag decal was not visible from the store. It didn’t do any good.
As soon as I entered the building, all conversation stopped, and a hundred pairs of eyes glared at me.
They knew I didn’t belong. This was not unlike a similar situation that happened when I was a freshman in
college. I had inadvertently wandered into an SDS meeting while proudly wearing my Students for
Goldwater button. Didn’t work then and it wasn’t working now.
I decided I had better get what I needed quickly and get out. But where was I gonna find these ingredients?
Did they even have a powdered organic mango seed section? I decided to ask for help. I went up to the first
staff member I saw (they all wore little black Che Guevara berets) and asked, “Which way to the lactose-
free semolina bran froth?”
“Over there,” he snarled, pointing to the other side of the store.
I wandered off toward the area he had indicated, only to see store staff retreating in the opposite direction,
eyes averted. I caught on to their plan right away, so I changed my route and scooted up the Tierra del
Fuegan guava extract aisle. An employee had turned the corner and started walking down the same aisle
toward me. As soon as he spotted me, he tried to get away, but I cornered him by the tofu display. Tofu
display? Cool. I need some of that. While I was grabbing the required type and amount of tofu (who thought
there would be so many choices), the clerk made his escape, but I didn’t mind, because I finally had my first
ingredient.
As you might imagine, the rest of my shopping experience was pretty much the same – chasing down store
staff and inadvertently running into required items. I finally finished shopping about three hours later, then
went to the check-out.
“I have no intention of checking you out, you carnivore. We don’t like your kind here,” huffed the check-out
clerk.
“Listen, Missy. I’ll butcher your cat alive, and nail his bloody carcass to your autographed Ralph Nader
campaign poster if you don’t get me out of here now,” I growled. I knew that would work. All those people
have cats and autographed Ralph Nader campaign posters. Twenty dollars and forty-eight cents later, I was
on my way.
It was getting to be pretty late, but fortunately, this cake was easy to put together. The batter was on the
heavy and sticky side and didn’t taste particularly sweet, but I trusted Judy and knew it would all be fine
once it had finished baking. I popped it into the oven for precisely thirty-three minutes, checked it for
doneness and let it cool. Then, following her instructions, I covered it and put it in the refrigerator. I finally
went to bed, where I had simply awful dreams about an organic lemon basil root pudding that was trying to
take over the minds of America’s Presidential candidates.
I awoke groggy and sweaty. Gradually I came to my senses and, after copious quantities of coffee, a smile
crossed my face. I had beaten the odds. I had covered my ass. I had a Valentine’s Day present after all.
And I knew it would be a good one.
I went to the fridge, took out the cake, and removed it from the pan. Hmmmm, I thought. It still seems kind of
heavy. Oh well, I’m sure it will be fine. Perhaps it was only a flicker of doubt that crossed my mind, causing
me to revisit the pantry one more time.
Our date was at 9:00, so I got ready quickly and left the house at 8:30. I made it to ‘Hunny’s’ house on time
and offered her my present. Needless to say, she was overwhelmed.
“This better not suck like the last cake you made for me, you idiot,” she said. Isn’t she cute?
“Hunny, this is Judy’s recipe. She would never do me wrong. Trust me. You’re gonna love it,” I said.
Hunny got out the knives, forks, and plates and proceeded to dole out two nice-sized portions.
“Hmmm,” she said. “It’s actually pretty good, considering that you made it. But it needs something.”
Grateful I had visited my pantry before leaving for our date, and impressed with my cunning for doing so, I
reached into my pocket and whipped out a can of Betty Crocker’s Double Fudge Frosting. “Here, Hunny,” I
said. “Spread on some of this.”
“Mmmmmmmm,” she drooled.
I learned a valuable lesson that day. Cake is really nothing but a vehicle for frosting. And frosting can
always win a girl’s heart – even Hunny’s. I learned one other lesson, too. Avoid hugs of gratitude from
frosting-crazed women. I ended up with two cracked ribs and a partially collapsed lung.
So Judy, if you’re reading this, I owe you one big THANK YOU – you and Betty Crocker that is, for making
this Valentines Day such a special one.
[1] “Hole Foods Market” is a fictional name. Interestingly though, and of course totally unrelated to my story, there is a store in
Ann Arbor called the “Whole Foods Market,” which does sell organic, vegetarian, and vegan products. Unlike my imaginary
“Hole Foods Market,” the Whole Foods Market’s staff is extremely helpful, even though they also wear those cute little black
Che Guevara berets. Recently, they have helped me find all kinds of healthy vegan foods like beet bile, mandrake clippings,
and peyote oil. So don’t give up on me, Judy. You may convert me yet.
sister Judy, the vegan. Now, anyone who knows me knows I’m a carnivore, but Judy’s been trying to convert
me for years. I’ve teased her mercilessly about her Evil Vegan Ways, but, bless her, she just doesn’t give
up. This recipe was for a Vegan Vanilla Cake. Just to be fair, I thought I’d at least read the recipe before
hitting the delete key. But dinner came first.
My homemade hasenpfeffer had finished its final simmer, so I filled up my plate, popped the top on a cold
one, settled down by my computer, and started to read. Except for the lack of eggs, butter, and sugar, her
recipe didn’t sound too bad. Sure, there were some ingredients I had never heard of before, but I figured
they wouldn’t affect the flavor all that much. Hey, I thought. It’s got vanilla in it. How bad can it be?
As I came to the end of Judy’s email, I saw it, and my jaw dropped:
- “Oh, the ‘horror’ of vegan eating,” she had written, throwing my own words back at me. “I dare you to
try this cake and say that!”
Judy had cyber-challenged me with a cyber-slap of her cyber-glove to my cyber-face. Naturally, my
competitive cyber-juices started flowing.
“You’re on!” I cried, blood dripping from my chin as I sucked the last morsel of flesh from a bunny bone – a
bunny I had killed with my bare hands, squeezing the life out of its little furry neck as it struggled vainly in
the cruel jaws of the leg trap I had set, simply for the pleasure of watching it die.
I finished dinner, cleaned up my plate, pounded down the rest of the six-pack, and promptly forgot about
the whole thing.
Fast forward to Friday, February 13th, about 10:30 PM.
It struck me like a knife in the chest. Damn, I thought. Tomorrow’s Valentine’s Day. I’m supposed to see my
‘Hunny’ first thing in the morning, too. I’ve got no flowers, no candy…nothing. And all the stores are closed.
What am I gonna do?
Suddenly, just like someone yanking a knife out of my chest, I remembered Judy’s recipe. Yes! I thought. I’ll
bake her a cake. Women love that sorta thing. I’ll be a hero; get some points back. Let’s just hope Judy’s
recipe doesn’t suck.
I hurried to my pantry (well, actually half a shelf in a kitchen cupboard) to see if I had all the necessary
ingredients.
Vanilla? Check. Raisins? Check. Baking powder? Check. NoSalt? Ch... Huh? What the hell is that? Oh. I
know. She probably means pepper. Check. Oat bran? Damn. I’ve got some stale Cheerios. That’ll do.
Check. Filtered water? Filtered water? What the hell’s wrong with tap water? Screw that. She’ll never know
the difference. Check. Brown rice syrup... vanilla soy milk... organic coconut oil... Tofu? Friggin’ tofu? Shit.
I’m screwed.
Only I wasn’t screwed. I should have known. The Peoples’ Republic of Ann Arbor may not have 24-hour
florists or confectioners, but it has 24-hour Healing Crystal Shops, 24-hour Copper Bracelet shops and
24-hour Aromatherapy Practitioners. Why wouldn’t it have at least one 24-hour organic food shop? It did –
the Hole Foods Market.[1]
I wrote out my shopping list, hopped into my car, and sped off to the store.
As I pulled into the parking lot, I couldn’t help noticing that it didn’t look like that of your typical Kroger’s or
Safeway. Not a single SUV in sight. There were more bicycle racks than parking spaces and what few cars
there were (all foreign, low emission-types) were sporting “No War,” “Impeach Bush,” or “Free the Chicago
Seven” bumper stickers. I backed my rusty, oil-smoking Saturn into the parking spot at the end of the lot,
making sure my American flag decal was not visible from the store. It didn’t do any good.
As soon as I entered the building, all conversation stopped, and a hundred pairs of eyes glared at me.
They knew I didn’t belong. This was not unlike a similar situation that happened when I was a freshman in
college. I had inadvertently wandered into an SDS meeting while proudly wearing my Students for
Goldwater button. Didn’t work then and it wasn’t working now.
I decided I had better get what I needed quickly and get out. But where was I gonna find these ingredients?
Did they even have a powdered organic mango seed section? I decided to ask for help. I went up to the first
staff member I saw (they all wore little black Che Guevara berets) and asked, “Which way to the lactose-
free semolina bran froth?”
“Over there,” he snarled, pointing to the other side of the store.
I wandered off toward the area he had indicated, only to see store staff retreating in the opposite direction,
eyes averted. I caught on to their plan right away, so I changed my route and scooted up the Tierra del
Fuegan guava extract aisle. An employee had turned the corner and started walking down the same aisle
toward me. As soon as he spotted me, he tried to get away, but I cornered him by the tofu display. Tofu
display? Cool. I need some of that. While I was grabbing the required type and amount of tofu (who thought
there would be so many choices), the clerk made his escape, but I didn’t mind, because I finally had my first
ingredient.
As you might imagine, the rest of my shopping experience was pretty much the same – chasing down store
staff and inadvertently running into required items. I finally finished shopping about three hours later, then
went to the check-out.
“I have no intention of checking you out, you carnivore. We don’t like your kind here,” huffed the check-out
clerk.
“Listen, Missy. I’ll butcher your cat alive, and nail his bloody carcass to your autographed Ralph Nader
campaign poster if you don’t get me out of here now,” I growled. I knew that would work. All those people
have cats and autographed Ralph Nader campaign posters. Twenty dollars and forty-eight cents later, I was
on my way.
It was getting to be pretty late, but fortunately, this cake was easy to put together. The batter was on the
heavy and sticky side and didn’t taste particularly sweet, but I trusted Judy and knew it would all be fine
once it had finished baking. I popped it into the oven for precisely thirty-three minutes, checked it for
doneness and let it cool. Then, following her instructions, I covered it and put it in the refrigerator. I finally
went to bed, where I had simply awful dreams about an organic lemon basil root pudding that was trying to
take over the minds of America’s Presidential candidates.
I awoke groggy and sweaty. Gradually I came to my senses and, after copious quantities of coffee, a smile
crossed my face. I had beaten the odds. I had covered my ass. I had a Valentine’s Day present after all.
And I knew it would be a good one.
I went to the fridge, took out the cake, and removed it from the pan. Hmmmm, I thought. It still seems kind of
heavy. Oh well, I’m sure it will be fine. Perhaps it was only a flicker of doubt that crossed my mind, causing
me to revisit the pantry one more time.
Our date was at 9:00, so I got ready quickly and left the house at 8:30. I made it to ‘Hunny’s’ house on time
and offered her my present. Needless to say, she was overwhelmed.
“This better not suck like the last cake you made for me, you idiot,” she said. Isn’t she cute?
“Hunny, this is Judy’s recipe. She would never do me wrong. Trust me. You’re gonna love it,” I said.
Hunny got out the knives, forks, and plates and proceeded to dole out two nice-sized portions.
“Hmmm,” she said. “It’s actually pretty good, considering that you made it. But it needs something.”
Grateful I had visited my pantry before leaving for our date, and impressed with my cunning for doing so, I
reached into my pocket and whipped out a can of Betty Crocker’s Double Fudge Frosting. “Here, Hunny,” I
said. “Spread on some of this.”
“Mmmmmmmm,” she drooled.
I learned a valuable lesson that day. Cake is really nothing but a vehicle for frosting. And frosting can
always win a girl’s heart – even Hunny’s. I learned one other lesson, too. Avoid hugs of gratitude from
frosting-crazed women. I ended up with two cracked ribs and a partially collapsed lung.
So Judy, if you’re reading this, I owe you one big THANK YOU – you and Betty Crocker that is, for making
this Valentines Day such a special one.
[1] “Hole Foods Market” is a fictional name. Interestingly though, and of course totally unrelated to my story, there is a store in
Ann Arbor called the “Whole Foods Market,” which does sell organic, vegetarian, and vegan products. Unlike my imaginary
“Hole Foods Market,” the Whole Foods Market’s staff is extremely helpful, even though they also wear those cute little black
Che Guevara berets. Recently, they have helped me find all kinds of healthy vegan foods like beet bile, mandrake clippings,
and peyote oil. So don’t give up on me, Judy. You may convert me yet.
Trunk Novels
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