My friend Sage’s relationship with her fiancé, Carlos, ended abruptly when she discovered he had a wife and 3 kids in Philadelphia. Sage and Carlos are both committed vegans and despite the turmoil of their breakup she remembered that she had paid $400 for two tickets to a day-long nutritional seminar. Sage was hurt and angry but she was not about to waste $400. That was how I ended up going to a seminar on Mindful Eating as her date.
It was an odd group of attendees. There were a trio of rail-thin sisters with hair the texture of straw and a heavy woman who lived alone with many cats. There was a stern old man who everyone called “Judge” and a middle-aged fat man who wore a cardigan sweater draped over his shoulders and spent the whole day knitting furiously. I was the only carnivore in the group and Sage earnestly advised me not to mention it.
The instructor, Serene, was dressed like an extra from ”Little House on the Prairie.” She explained that fruits and vegetables are God’s living creatures and should be consumed with gratitude and “spiritual mindfulness.”
She placed a huge basket of produce on the floor and we all formed a circle and joined hands to recite a salutation: “Veggies are a gift from God/ and so must be protected./When a veggie’s treated callously/God feels disrespected.” I looked at Sage but she refused to make eye contact with me.
We soon learned that every ear of corn is sacred and that eating corn mindlessly was akin to murder. “I had corn flakes this morning,” I whispered to Sage. “Does that make me a cereal killer?” She ignored me.
A bit later Serene mentioned that “If God sees every sparrow that falls does He not account for each leaf of basil?”
“No more pesto for me!” I said softly. Sage moved to the other side of the room.
The highlight of the morning was when Serene picked up the basket and gave everyone a vegetable or a piece of fruit. This was our new friend. The lucky ones got a carrot or a peach. Sage got a plantain. I got a spaghetti squash. Serene explained that we had 15 minutes to bond with our new friend; we were supposed to name it, learn all we could about it and then introduce it to the group. I began to wish I was dead.
When it was my turn I introduced my squash to the group as “Mrs. George.” Mrs. George was the terrifying harpy who was in charge of my elementary school cafeteria. “She’s hard and unattractive on the outside,” I said, “but if you expend the time and energy to cut through that tough exterior you won’t like what’s on the inside either.” I said. There was an awkward silence as my classmates stared at their feet. Serene cleared her throat and said I lacked empathy.
Soon it was Sage’s turn to introduce us to her plantain. “This is Carlos,” she said and I stared at her, open-mouthed. “You look at this plantain and you think it’s simple and that you understand it,” she said, “but then you peel it and you discover that you have no idea what’s inside.” I began to hope Sage would stop talking. She didn’t.
“Soon you realize that you don’t know anything about the plantain,” Sage continued, “and that your plantain is a fucking, psychopathic liar.” By now the group was staring at Sage, eyes wide.
Sage threw her plantain on the floor and stomped on it, hard. Serena gasped. The cat lady crossed herself. The middle-aged knitter was so stunned he forgot to purl. Defiant, Sage sat down, her poor squashed plantain at her feet. Serene, visibly angry, picked up the plantain and cradled it in her arms.
“What did poor Carlos here ever do to you?” she asked.