An open letter to meat eaters from a vegan.

Dearly Beloved Carnist,

I want you to know something about your food.

It’s something pretty important.

It will change the world.

It is the beginning of world peace, even.

Ready?

I don’t give a flying batfuck what you eat.

I feel the awkwardness when you look through the steamy glass of the buffet window before you sideways glance at me. I hear it in your voice as you give me blatantly exaggerated compliments about the “very strange” meal I cooked for you. I noticed you disappeared just before breakfast and came back smelling like burnt piggie, and I made out like I believed you when you said you’d been at the shops the whole time. You might think you’re fooling everyone but no, sorry.

I’m supremely aware that you’re uncomfortable eating with me since I joined V Club. You worry I’ll be offended. Well, I am! I’m offended that you think I’m the kind of arsehole that will judge you for what you put in your mouth (just like so many judge me for what I don’t put in mine.) I’m hurt you think you need to lie to me so you can go out and get a juicy piece of carcass, like there wasn’t a time I loved the taste of it too.

And so I want to clear this up once and for all: I don’t give two shits what is on your plate.

Yes, I am vegan. And yes, it is a movement. Would I like more people to join V Club? Of course. Any time we humans discover something that deeply enriches our lives we want to share it. Do I kind of secretly wish you’d watch Forks Over Knives and stop putting poison in your body? Yes, but I wish a lot of my vegan friends would get on that too. Vegan and healthy aren’t synonymous after all. If I love you chances are I want you to live as long and healthy a life as possible. Maybe you want the same for me too.

I have a lot of reasons for being vegan, it’s true. Likely you’ve asked me why I made the change and I will have told you with all the enthusiasm of a fangirl raving about her favourite series, but there’s also a bunch of reasons it took me so damn long to climb on the wagon and I haven’t forgotten that either.

You know what else I haven’t forgotten? Some meat actually tastes pretty amazing. Cold roast lamb smothered in salt? Mmm yeah. Salmon and tuna sashimi? Hello deliciousness. There’s a reason that fake meat occasionally winds up in my shopping trolley, and it’s not nutrition (because if you think that processed crap is at all healthy, I’ve got news for you!) Do I miss meat? No, not in the slightest. But I remember enjoying it and when I stopped enjoying it I remember being utterly convinced I had to choke it down or I’d get malnutrition. Our relationships with food are a journey; a process of challenging emotional attachments (or choosing not to) and becoming educated about nutrition and world issues.

I remember thinking that “free range” made it ok. There was a time I didn’t know what a bobby calf was and I never wondered what happened to male chicks at birth. I actually used to believe that the reason the Amazon was being cut down was for wood. (Yeah, it’s not, by the way.) I’m not really sure how I thought the fish got out of the ocean and onto my plate but I never envisioned it being in a giant net with hundreds of dolphins, whales and porpoises who would die or be horribly maimed. I had this image in my mind of milk cows frolicking in the field, eager to be milked by a friendly farmer at the beginning of the day and it wasn’t until I started breastfeeding that I ever wondered when a cow started lactating. There was a time people would talk with horror about how other cultures eat cats and dogs and I secretly didn’t understand why that was abhorrent – I’m sure they still taste good, right? – and now the fact other people don’t think eating pigs is abhorrent is utterly confusing for me.

There was even a time I said that milk, eggs and honey were nature’s perfect foods because there was no suffering or death involved. These foods were like gifts from above. A mate of mine kindly but firmly told me I was an idiot and to do my research. Of course I didn’t, not until years later, but if you’re reading this Dzui, I’m sorry for being a moron, and thank you xx

This is just a snapshot of my food journey, but clearly I’m not in a place to judge anyone, even if I was of a mind to. Which, in case you missed it, I’m not. Like, when I share food pictures on Facebook to brag about how I made this nut cheese and my husband actually ate it I’m not trying to say “my pizza is better than yours!” I’m sharing something I’ve achieved. Something I created that was successful. An experience I had that put a smile on my face. When you share a photo of your still-bleeding-a-little perfect roast with your tiny pile of sad looking veggies are you thinking of me? Do you post it because Miriam needs to get more meat on her bones (and in her belly)? I very much doubt it. So why then would I be thinking of you when I post a photo of my meal?

Yes when you eat at my house I’m going to cook my strange food. I’m not a short order cook. If you don’t like vegetables you can bring your own food along, just as I would be fine with bringing my own meal to your house if you don’t know what to feed me. I’m not trying to convert you, this is just what we were having anyway. Seriously, my eating habits are not about you.

So, dear Carnist, rest assured I’m not going to trash talk you to my kids. I’m not going to stop eating out with you nor will I guilt trip you into having a salad when we go for brunch. I didn’t become a vegan to be an arsehole; in fact I became a vegan in the hopes I could be less of an arsehole! So let’s just do each other a favour: I’m going to stop apologising for being vegan and you can stop apologising for not.

Respectfully,
Miriam.

Miriam Cumming is approaching her third veganniversary along with her three daughters and plant-based husband. When she’s not eating salad, Miriam writes urban fantasy for young adults, and casts spells to make the world a better place.