My name is Susan. And I am a NonGlutetarian.
I was flummoxed while reading a magazine article wherein the featured reality show panelist declared herself a Pescatarian. This, I learned upon further reading, is a person who eats plants, dairy, eggs, and fish. Goodgollymissmolly. What would we do without labels? Can we just have a limited diet? Ooooh, nooooooooooo. We must label it. Vegetarian. Vegan. Omnivore. Herbivore. Localvore. Dinosaur. Now Pescatarian?? Of course, this ludicrous thought got me going on how 'they' label fish. What would you rather eat (especially if you are a sensitive, caring Pescatarian)? Mozambique Mouth-brooder or Tilapia (which, by the way, is considered an exotic pest in Queensland)? Antarctic Cod or Patagonian Toothfish? Whilst rummaging through the frozen seafood section of a local food emporium, I was amazed at all of the 'new' fish available. It is taking me three times as long, by the way, to do any shopping for seafood (not that I do much - as I am a Borderline Pescatarian) between farm raised, wild caught, endangered species, illegal fishing methods, country of origin with horrendous human rights violations, or some hideous Asian eating (sex aid) craze. Maybe I should become a Insectatarian. Heaven only knows, they are gluten-free and I could free range on my garden right now and not have to touch the plant life other than foraging for my creepy-crawly dinner. Eating is becoming so trendy, it's making me all prickly. Or maybe that's the humidity. It's like being in line for a cup of coffee and the guy in front of me, pressed khaki pants pulled up to his armpits, roguish hair cut - tousled just so - raps off his coffee order and it takes over five minutes to get it out. I swear, I would have liked to have given him a wedgie. It MUST be the humidity.
Crankypants aside, I am getting better at accepting 'veggies'. Even if I do still have to say it through slightly-clenched teeth. I will always have trouble with 'baby' vegetables. Baby carrots are, most of the time, large carrots that have been cut, ground, trimmed and rounded to appear baby-like. We used to call them carrot sticks. That's what we got in our lunches. In grade school, my lunch was legendary. It consisted of at least four components, all neatly wrapped in waxed paper, always including carrot sticks, placed in a brown paper bag with my name on it. While most mothers were over the moon with HoHos, Twinkies, and a host of other prepackaged, imitation foods pumped full of processed ingredients, my mother baked her own cookies, baked her own bread, and packed a very balanced lunch. If I ended up with a meatloaf sandwich, I could trade that baby for a Cadillac, had I been old enough to drive in third grade. And, I'm sorry to report, I was only too happy to hand over half of my homemade brownie for half of a Twinkie. Just tell a kid she can't have something, and that's all she wants. Sigh. I wish that kid would go away. She's been hanging around for ages and I can't seem to lose her.