Vegan lifestyle articles that discuss ways of living in peace with humans, animals, and the environment.
Every Sunday, we partook in an asado, Argentine barbecue which included most parts of the cow: molleja (gizzards or thymus gland), tripe (stomach), lengua (tongue), tripas (intestines), and sesos (brains). I preferred to eat my meat very well done, almost burned because the smell and sight of animal blood bothered me and sometimes made me nauseous.
“Uno mas?” I looked up at Dad, and before I could give an answer, another
piece of charred meat was put on my plate, whether I wanted it or not.
I never did forget the smell of spices and cooked meat that permeated the
back porch where we ate as a family. Every Sunday, we partook in an asado,
Argentine barbecue which included most parts of the cow: molleja (gizzards
or thymus gland), tripe (stomach), lengua (tongue), tripas (intestines), and
sesos (brains). I preferred to eat my meat very well done, almost burned. My
father, a non-wavering asado lover and excellent cook, could not understand
that and every Sunday had to wait at the barbecue grill until my steak was
well-done, while everyone else partook in the rest of the grub at
medium-well. Dad liked his steak medium-rare. I disliked sitting next to him
at our barbecues and purposely sat across from him at the dinner table. The
smell and sight of animal blood bothered me and sometimes made me
nauseous.
Friends and family filled the asado table almost weekly because Dad was well
known for creating the most delicious asados on the planet. I remember many
laughs shared gathering around the patio table overlooking a beautifully
trimmed yard, Mom’s pride and joy. The rest of the meal usually consisted of
a simple salad of iceberg or romaine lettuce with tomatoes and onions, and
the occasional French fries fried in olive oil. As I grew older, it became
my job to put together the salads we ate with our asados. I remember the
delicious aroma of apple cider vinegar and olive oil as I mixed the salads
to the perfect consistency. Everyone loved Dad’s barbecues; they were a
special time of laughter, a celebration of life and love, a time of
releasing the stresses of the workweek. In Argentina, as is in many
countries, meals are a means of sharing and partaking in love and
friendship. They are essential for bonding and integral to the culture.
Growing up in Los Angeles as an immigrant from Rosario, Argentina, Sunday
asados were the most consistent family tradition. It was also our custom to
eat lots of pasta, rice, dairy, fish, and chicken with a Spanish and Italian
flair. Meat was included as part of every meal, and so was Spanish or
Argentine wine. My mother, a homemaker and very loving parent, raised us and
cooked locro, paella, polenta, puchero, arroz con pollo, milanese, and
desserts like flan (my favorite), alfajores, pan dulce, and arroz con leche.
As a result, food became my solace away from the outside world as I tried
desperately to assimilate into the American culture and learn English
without help from my Spanish-speaking parents. As a child, I developed many
colds, was overweight, and had sinusitis; eventually, as a young adult, I
became asthmatic, but I still looked forward to coming home from school and
partaking in Mom’s delicious home-cooked meals!
One cold February day, as I arrived home after high school track practice, I
noticed numerous cars parked in front of our house. Something felt eerie and
unsettling. As I ventured up the long stairway that led to the front porch
of the house, I could see grim, familiar faces through the kitchen window,
and I knew something was very wrong. As I stepped into the house, I noticed
most of my parents’ friends in our kitchen and dining area. I will never
forget the look on their faces as my eyes met theirs. I felt a deep anxiety
as I looked from one face to another trying desperately to determine what
happened. After what felt like an eternity, Dad pulled me aside and told me
Mom had collapsed in the bathroom and was in a coma in the hospital. At that
life-changing moment, I knew my mother was not going to make it.
The short drive to the hospital felt like the longest drive of my life. Dad
and I did not say a word to each other. So many thoughts raced through my
mind: “What now? What will I do now that Mom is gone? What will happen to my
family?” Once at the hospital, I discovered Mom had had a massive stroke.
Her prognosis was grim: even if she were to emerge from her coma, she would
spend the rest of her life in a wheelchair and as a vegetable. The shock
from these words filled my heart with fear. The woman who was so vibrant,
who created the wonderful meals I loved, who cared for me like no one ever
had, who was the undeniable glue that held our family together, who I loved
with all my heart, was gone. It was too much to bear, and I asked the
question we all ask: “Why?”
Mom was in a coma for two weeks and then died on March 7, 1981. As an obese
woman who lived with an alcoholic husband, Mom had been in emotional and
physical pain. I could not imagine Mom living her life in a vegetative
state. I tried to come to peace with what just happened. I ventured out to
my favorite beach a few hilly blocks from our home and stared at the
atypical and tranquil March surge as I cried. I soaked in the smell of
seaweed and wet sand as I stood overlooking the water, anxious and
despondent.
Once Mom was buried, our family life, as I knew it, fell apart. In a deep
depression and a constant alcoholic stupor, Dad ignored my siblings and me.
Life at home became unbearable. I became involved in many activities at
school to spend as much time away from home as possible. No one talked about
Mom’s death, no one cooked paella or Italian sausage with tomato sauce; we
lived in denial and tried to carry on. The delicious meals, the Argentine
asados, and the family traditions stopped for what seemed like years because
Mom could not be replaced.
As years passed, I often wondered why my mother died the way she did. I
eventually accepted that her stoke occurred as a result of ill health and
obesity due to the kind of food she ate. I believed that conclusion even
further when about a decade later, Dad, also obese, collapsed at home and
died of a heart attack. Years later, after moving to Colorado and as a
stay-at-home mother myself, every time I stepped into my kitchen, I thought
of my mother. Anytime I cooked a meal from scratch, I thought of Mom. I
remembered how she nurtured us, inspired us, and fed us. I tried to create
her delicious meals: rice and bean stew (paella), spaghetti with her
wonderful meat sauce, gnocchi marinara, chicken and rice soup (puchero).
Although my cooking was good, nothing could replace Mom’s.
In hopes of passing on family tradition to my daughter by experimenting with
Mom’s recipes, I soon discovered that although her recipes were delicious,
they were far from healthy. And, suffering from horrible PMS, fibroids,
chronic fatigue, anxiety, mood swings, asthma, intestinal problems,
sinusitis, foggy thinking, and even depression, I had to do something to
improve my health. Also, my daughter, a toddler, would not eat any kind of
meat, so in hopes of keeping her healthy, I began to study vegetarianism. I
discovered that what my parents and I had been eating most of our lives was
indeed harmful, very unhealthy, and even life-threatening. I delved into
vegetarian cuisine. I learned that eating any type of meat was not necessary
for good health, dairy was harmful and caused many ailments, and eating a
plant-based diet was indeed much healthier. I read about the protein content
in beans, the health benefits of vegetables, the fiber in fruit, and the
harmful chemicals found in meat. Truly fascinated by what I read and by the
examples of fit and healthy vegetarian (and vegan) people, I decided I
needed to “go vegetarian.”
Once a seasoned vegetarian and successfully changing my daughter’s diet, I
stumbled upon the documentaryEarthlingsand watched it with my jaw and
heart on the floor. I then chose to go vegan because I could not continue to
participate in the barbaric exploitation of animals and the destruction of
our only planet. Soon after, most of my ailments including sinusitis,
asthma, depression, chronic fatigue, PMS, fibroids, anxiety, and foggy
thinking disappeared. There was no turning back!
I think about Mom and Dad daily and thank them for their contribution to my
now healthy and abundant life. I miss them dearly. I cannot give to them
what they gave to me, but I can share with others what I’ve learned, what
I’ve experienced, and who I’ve become because of their sacrifice and
misguidedness. My goal is to welcome new family traditions and create vegan
versions of the many Argentine meals I ate as a child. My mission is to
inspire and teach others how to live an abundant, healthy, and compassionate
vegan lifestyle.
“Uno mas?” Dad would say to me every time before adding another piece of
charred meat to my plate. How I wish I could have told him that “Uno mas?”
was so harmful to his health, to Mom’s, to the animals, and to the planet.
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