Tofurky turd dogs

I wake at 8:15am because it takes me exactly 45 minutes to present home made waffles with whip, local blueberries, Quebec maple syrup and bacon. I let out ol’ desperate eyed Tartuffe (he doesn’t bark or whine, he implores, silently, which believe me, is very loud) I pick some nasturtiums, mint and lavender for garnish and smell the crisp fragrant Bowen air. How I love being here.

Today I have my first vegetarians at our BnB (which, by the way, is more than halfway sold out for the entire summer). The closest thing I could find to “bacon” in the Bowen store was Tofurky kielbasa. Tofurky. That sounds like something my daughter shouldn’t say. Or, perhaps a foot fungus. Or something you insert that gets stuck. ‘t looks like moulded dog feces and probably tastes about the same. It was absolutely heartbreaking for me to cook this stuff. For the same price I could have offered steak and eggs.

That said, I respect the ethical choice and want to do anything for my guests to make them feel comfortable. So, I grill the fingerling turds up with onion and peppers and try to present it with the nasturtiums without breaking out in a laugh. “Here is your lovely plate of disgusting tofu product.” I really really have to test my own vegan recipes for times like these because Yves and Tofurky are making billions off of people like me who don’t know their way around a lentil, pulse or TVP.

One of our children has complained about my food. Again. Well of course they are going to complain, it’s my most constant demonstration of love and the teen years are afoot. The latest complaint is that I cook too much meat. They are toying with the idea of becoming a pescatarian. Sure. I don’t have enough going on. Now I have to learn how to balance your diet and provide enough protein during your vital growing years. Now I have to augment every favourite recipe I have, on top of working around my own allergies (and by the way the biggest allergy is soy, nuts, shellfish and some beans) which leaves me with freaking – broccoli. Okay. And some salmon. No problem. I have nothing else to do except serve.

When I grew up, the only thing I had to decide at this age was whether I wanted to pierce my ears or not. Now kids are questioning ethical eating, spiritual paradigms and their sexual identification terminology.

And that, my friends, is a massive over-reaction. It was a third hand complaint in a sea of praise. I know. And I do, of course I do, want my kids to be happy, comfortable and feel they are making the right choice for their bodies.

Am I really upset that the child wants to eat less meat? No. Not at all. In fact, I’ve said it myself. That’s why I favour Italian food. It’s bits of this and that with a lot of vegetables and great cheese. I would rather not eat meat at all if it isn’t raised ethically.

I’m upset that my cooking, which is so very personal for me, has been criticized. Again. This is supposed to be the easy love, the thing I do well, the offer I can count on to please. And I’m a pleaser. And that’s the thing. That’s what I have to tell them about me. If I was approached with, “Hey, I really love lentils and curry.  Would you be able to make that?” I would be all over it in a heartbeat with jubilation. “Hey, I love pad Thai, do you know how to cook that?” I would be cracking the books, crosschecking recipes eagerly. It’s because I was hit with negativity.

I should really have a t-shirt, “Praise me and I will do anything. I’m a Leo!” Or – maybe I should not have a t-shirt.

Downstairs my lovely guests are munching their tofu turds and I am curious to see how much of it is left on the plate when I go down to clean out the suite after they leave. Tofurkey ate up my breakfast profit it was so expensive. That’s what burns me. I cooked that crap for free. Well, one thing is for sure, upstairs or downstairs, I won’t ever again buy packaged pretend meat.