We had existed for six months without meat; it was not by choice. We were not vegetarians but autumn hunting had produced no game. I guess we were vegetarians . . . at least by circumstance! It is well that we liked potatoes because we ate them for every meal. Every day I thought of the famines of Ireland and, in my mind, I superimposed our faces on those in Van Gogh's picture, "The Potato Eaters." We were more fortunate than that. Our food budget was minuscule, but we were not starving. I baked some kind of bread every day and our kitchen was warm and smelled cozy and inviting.
We had chickens for eggs (heaven forbid we should eat a chicken!) and a neighbor had a cow so we were able to buy raw milk at about half the retail cost. We skimmed the cream to make our own butter. Each day Sarah and Karen (our two young daughters) and I went out to the garden spot and picked the small, creeping plant known as "chick weed." I began to think of it as manna. It was too early in the year to plant, but the chick weed covered the ground abundantly. We made salads with it, adding a little grated carrot for color. We learned to eat it steamed and limp like spinach. It replaced lettuce in egg-salad sandwiches. Our chick weed became increasingly versatile.
It was the 70's and there were vast groups of "hippie" types who touted diets using no animal products as the only sane and moral way to eat. Although we did not embrace their philosophy or lifestyle, I did look to them for suggestions on menu planning and creative, meatless cooking.
It took me eight weeks to scrimp enough from my food budget to buy a $4.79 paperback copy of Laurel's Kitchen. It was the current bible of vegetarian cooking, written by the gourmet gurus of garden delectables. One author, Carol Flinders, also had a weekly cooking column in the newspaper and was wined and dined by most of the media. I remember seeing her picture and though certainly not unattractive, she looked the epitome of a commune earth-mother: long skirt, no makeup, long hair in a bun and a muslin, prairie-style apron.
I felt guilty and self-indulgent buying that cookbook, but if it could help me stretch my food dollar and still provide nourishing, satisfying and varied meals for my family, it would be money well spent. I made a cup of fragrant herbal tea, settled down at the kitchen table in the morning sun and eagerly opened its pages. The first chapters on nutrition were interesting and deviated widely from currently accepted notions. Their four basic food groups were different from the ones I had learned in school and endorsed by the government. Their nutritional information seemed authoritative and made good sense. I didn't learn much about bread, though, it was already our staff of life. I was beginning to see, however, that there would be nothing particularly frugal about eating the way "Laurel" did. Many of the grains and other ingredients could only be purchased in a trendy (spendy) health-food store and it was twenty-five miles from my house to a decent one. Besides, in scanning the recipes, I found myself wincing involuntarily at some of the suggested dishes: garbanzo spread, buttermilk curry, zucchini oat-flake loaf, lentil-nut loaf, soy pate`. Tofu and yogurt were used extensively. People really ate that stuff and smiled? Maybe those serene expressions on the authors' faces were because their senses had atrophied and neither taste nor aroma could disturb them any longer. Maybe those weren't smiles but grimaces.
I was determined that my $4.79 would not be wasted. We simply could not afford that. I began reading earnestly. I would use that book! I could find nothing to fix without first restocking the entire kitchen. Consequently, I began looking in other cookbooks, searching for similar recipes with my newly acquired enthusiasm and knowledge of amino acid spectrums. Finally, in Woman's Day Encyclopedia of Cookery, I found something I could make with what we already had. It was called "Peanut-Rice Loaf." It had several points in its favor: it featured rice, which we loved and always had in the cupboard, and peanut butter, which Ken was particularly fond of (not so much for sandwiches, mind your, but he liked eating big spoons of it kind of like a snack) and we all enjoyed meat loaves. That is, we had enjoyed them when we could still afford ground meat. I propped the book open on the counter and began assembling ingredients with only the slightest, vaguest uneasiness. My misgivings increased as dinner preparations progressed, though. Looking at the loaf through the window of the oven door gave me serious doubts. Staring at the finished product steaming on a cooling rack in the center of the table actually did something unusual to my gag reflex.
I called the family in for dinner. We bowed our heads and thanked God for our food. I carefully sliced off slabs of our aromatic loaf and placed one on each plate along with a biscuit and steamed chick weed. Forks in hand, we sat as if mesmerized . . . contemplating our main course. I don't know what I had expected, but certainly not anything quite . . . like this! The inside somehow looked exactly like the outside . . . a rather solid, tawny, mustard color without any variation at all. It did not look edible by even the wildest stretch of my ample imagination.
"Uh," Sarah looked up at me, "what is it?" Two more pairs of eyes gripped mine, waiting for an answer.
"It's a Peanut-Rice Loaf," I said with false bravado, smiling broadly, "It's good. You'll like it!" Doubtfully (theirs no greater than mine), we lifted our forks to our mouths and took our first bites.
Karen's was back on her plate the nanosecond it touched her tongue. "I don't like it. I'm not going to eat it!" Defiantly, she set her jaw and pushed her plate away.
"I'm not very hungry," Sarah informed us, "May I be excused, please? "Her uneaten bite was on her fork, sitting squarely on her plate.
We excused both girls and Ken and I continued with dinner as they watched furtively from the living room, whispering. Or, more accurately, Ken and I both attempted to swallow what was in our mouths. Ken looked a bit green, his Adams apple bobbing up and down. My bite was having the same effect on me that raw oysters do . . . within my mouth, it just kept getting bigger. My throat, of its own accord, had closed and refused admittance of even one small sample. Finally, in defeat, I was forced to spit it back in my plate before it was joined by my lunch. The girls gasped; they were thunderstruck: Mom had spit! Ken laughed at me outright as he, too, got rid of his mouthful and wiped his face.
"Come on, girls," he called to our children, pushing back from the table and grasping the loaf-pan with conviction, "let's feed this thing to the dog!" He looked at me, defying me to say something, but when I clearly wasn't going to argue, he gave me a sympathetic grin.
Now Sam, our Golden Retriever, ate everything. She used to steal chicken eggs on occasion and bury them for later enjoyment . . . months later. People within a quarter-mile of us knew each time Sam had dug up one of her treasured caches and our immediate neighbors would call to complain about their flowers wilting. Sam delighted in those eggs. She savored every redolent morsel and rolled in the remains, a blissful expression on her face.
"Come here, girl," Ken called to her, the children at his heels, "I've got a treat for you." He tipped the still-warm loaf out of the pan and lobbed it her direction like a baby-poop colored football. Sam, always eager, faded wide to intercept the unexpected bounty. Doggy drool already dripped to the ground in anticipation. She deftly caught the pass and, in that unfathomable way dogs have, deposited it instantly on the ground with an audible "Petuie!" She retreated to her dog house, tail between her legs, and looked at the offending object, sneezing twice. Finally, she raised accusing eyes to Ken as if he had betrayed her . . . and howled. Ken and the girls all collapsed in laughter. Sam refused to even bury the loaf and Ken had to get out a shovel to do the honors. The girls cupped their hands to their mouths and tooted "Taps "over its final resting spot. We figure we're safe as long as the EPA never finds out.
I definitely learned one thing that day: do not accept second-best for cooking. When it comes to a vegetarian diet, all the people who raved over Laurel's Kitchen may have known what they were talking about. There is not one mention of a peanut-rice loaf between it's covers. I've grown my hair long enough to wind into a bun and I have a new muslin apron tucked away with the dish towels, too. I'm also prepared to make a commitment to restocking the kitchen larder. If Laurel or Carol ever invites me to lunch, I want to be prepared: tofu notwithstanding, I still have a lot to learn from the gurus!
