MANILA, Philippines - So there I was one early July morning, eating a tuna sandwich for breakfast, when I read the front page of my favorite newspaper. One story made me smile: “What’s a pescatarian? See Merriam-Webster,” the headline read. It went on to say that 100 new words were recently added to the dictionary, including of course, “pescatarian,” which refers to a vegetarian who also eats fish.
Bull’s eye! I looked up at my mother (yes, I’m a 37-year-old bachelor who still lives with his mum), excitedly pointed to the story, and said, “Mhmb! Drhr djh phhhb plth bthth bgrl pbthth!”
Mama raised her butter knife. “Didn’t I teach you not to talk when your mouth is full?” I instinctively ducked, but she had other plans for the knife which was, thankfully, to use it for its original purpose. “I already read it, son. Congratulations. Looks like your kind is growing.”
She said that with as much dryness as the Gobi Desert. And I couldn’t blame her. The last time I ate her passionately prepared Bicol Express, steaming hot pochero, sweet spare ribs, chicken rice and lollipops was in 2001. She stopped egging me to eat her meat-based specialties two years after that when she was finally certain I wasn’t going for any helping of those.
I would have gone to the extreme—like what my girlfriend did. Eight years ago, she stopped eating meat altogether—she literally went cold turkey—after learning how the poor livestock suffered on their way to our dining table. She added fish to her list of non-munchables when she learned that these, too, suffered pain at the end of the hook. Then just two years ago, she scratched off dairy products, soft drinks and sugar from her diet as well in support of her mother’s vegan diet. The older woman has breast cancer and this diet was meant to deprive cancer cells of acids (hence, no sugar) and animal protein (hence, no meat and milk).
But in deference to my own mom, who balked at the prospect of me eating the near-equivalent of tree bark, I did not become a pure vegetarian—or a vegan. I struck a compromise with her. I would still eat her fish- and seafood-based dishes, and occasionally the eggs she has been so used to preparing for me every morning.
So when I’m home, my mother prepares her usual meat dishes for herself and the rest of the household, while her culinary exertions for me consist of sinigang na bangus, laing with daing or dinaing na galunggong, to go with the usual salads. Then I’d tuck into the ice cream she lovingly chose from the supermarket (“My hands went numb from holding that darn thing at the cashier line for so long!” was her not-so-subtle hint). She would then shove a large lakatan banana into my hands. “Don’t forget to eat your banana. It’ll keep your balance.” Homely advice only mothers (and probably their trusted doctors) can offer.
In effect, I wasn’t just a pescatarian at home. I was also a lacto-ovo-pescatarian, which means dairy products, eggs, and fish made their way into my gut.
However, I just realized I was leading a “double life” by being a pescatarian. When I’m with family and friends, I turn to the conventional omnivore diet—gobbling up mostly fish, sinful desserts, and the like. But when I’m with my girlfriend, I make the effort to eat only what she eats—mainly vegemeat (gluten and soy-based meat substitutes), salads, and soy milk. “Postres” are replaced by fruit shakes (no milk or yogurt). She is aware of this setup, and generally tolerates it (though I sometimes hear her grumble “you’re growing a black spot over your left eye from eating all that ice cream. Want me to buy you a cowbell to go with that?”).
Being a pescatarian—the so-called “middle ground” between “veganism” and “omnivore-ism”—isn’t so bad. Like I said, I could find a spot in any company cafeteria and still enjoy the edamame with my vegan better half.
But I know that eventually I have to make a complete transition. Let’s face it: fish are animals, too, and milk and eggs are part of living, feeling organisms—well, eggs are destined to become chickens, ducks, quails and ostriches. I can only compare the stability of my dietary status now with that of tectonic plates under the earth’s crust. They constantly collide and break up.
And now I feel myself shaking. Is D-day at hand? Oh, but it’s only my mom shaking me out of my daily read and ordering me to wash the dishes. I may have a choice when it comes to what I eat, but as everyone knows, you can’t refuse your mom. Or she’ll have you for lunch.
Copyright 2009 Philippine Daily Inquirer. All rights reserved. This material may not be published, broadcast, rewritten or redistributed.
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