My family of origin ate lots of meat, and I never knew there could be a life without it until I was a teenager. One day my mother sent me to the store for groceries and on the way home the blood of a chicken dripped on me. It was shocking to me that an animal’s life-blood touched my hands and clothing. That made me think about how much worse it was that I was putting these animals into my body.

I don’t know how much time elapsed, but eventually someone told me about vegetarians. Hard to believe I didn’t know about vegetarianism until I was in my late teens, but that’s the ignorance of suburbia in the 1960s. As soon as I heard that there are people who eat no meat, I was attracted to the idea, and I knew that was what I wanted to be.

Making the transition wasn’t completely easy, but my family was fairly understanding and accepting of my decision. I think I was 17 at the time. Really, nobody gave me a bad time about it except during one incident that I’ve never forgotten. I was visiting with my boyfriend, who wasn’t as enthusiastic about my vegetarianism as I was. In fact, he may have been trying to talk me out of it; I really don’t remember if that was the case. But I do remember his mother’s live-in boyfriend, a professor of entomology at the University of California at Berkeley, chiming into the conversation to say I was a vegetable because I wanted to be a vegetarian. That stung, and I never forgot his opinion.

Still I persisted in transitioning to vegetarianism. I am sorry to say that I’ve been through several relationships since then. None of my husbands or boyfriends have been vegetarian. My current boyfriend is being forced into vegetarianism by medical conditions, but he’s fighting it all the way and still occasionally eats chicken and fish.

Meanwhile I’m very happy with my luscious vegetarian cuisine. It makes me feel great to know that no animals were harmed in the preparation of my dinner tonight.