The oh so smart and clever Guardian once again struggles with its inner vegan.
Falling in love is a wondrous thing and an overwhelming attraction to another person can cause unexpected changes. Suddenly, perhaps overnight, you might acquire an interest in folk music. You might find yourself intrigued by high fashion, or engrossed in airport thrillers. I am no exception to this rule – love has transformed me too. If only in the sense that it’s left me partial to broad beans.
To be fair, not just broad beans, but green beans and sugar snap peas. Not just legumes either, but seeds – sunflower, hemp and pumpkin – pulses and grains. Basically, thanks to my wife and my willingness to trust her appetites, I can happily exist on a diet a rabbit might find restrictive. It’s vegan food, it’s often raw and it keeps me regular. That is the profound, transformative power of love.
I have always been a carnivore. More importantly, however, I am a carbivore; I love carbohydrates and the sensation of being stuffed. Some people climb mountains, others inject heroin. Me, I chase that exquisite sensation of being so full that my stomach starts haggling with my bellybutton for a spot of extra elbow room.
My wife doesn’t quite approach food in the same way. Technically, she is a pescatarian. She uses the term partly because it sounds like she is predisposed to being pesky, but also because it makes it clear that while she doesn’t eat meat, she will eat fish.
