You already know that I've been a vegan for like "forever."
Seriously, I have not eaten meat in 22 years, but I do remember what scrambled eggs with cheese, a McDonald's cheeseburger, and fried shrimp taste like. Outside of those items, I only know what things should taste like, through smell. Being a professional cook, I get a lot of flak for not tasting all the food I make (that's pretty much a rule in the kitchen : always taste what you make.)
I have been turned down for kitchen jobs, because I offended the head chef by not tasting the dish he had me make.
Babies. We make them. This is a fact that is known by everyone, and it might just be the most obvious statement a person is capable of uttering. And yet, when you make one of your own, the whole process seems strangely impossible. When I watch my son, it’s unfathomable that I had a hand in creating an entire human being. The strangest part of it all? This feeling is somewhat new to me. This sense of absolute wonderment wasn’t around when he was born, or it at least paled in comparison to the feeling’s recent severity.
I eat meat.
I also married a vegan.
This aspect of our lives is not without it’s own share of complications. We have both had to make accommodations for one another’s dietary doctrine. However, neither one of us views this compromise as a challenge or hassle.
By Mike Church
I’ve been in the stay at home dad game, completely unsupervised (who’s bright idea was it to leave me alone with a helpless, tiny human being!?) for about a week now. So far, so good. At least the baby is still alive.
It’s 5 AM, still dark. The spring-time oak pollen has been ruining my life for the fifth straight day now. The baby is crying, smiling, eating, and farting, all at the same time. Babies are really incredible multitaskers when they want to be. I get the baby fed, cleaned up, and re swaddled. I put him down in his crib, nestled snugly into whatever scandinavian-designed “sleeping dock” (something which is wholly unnecessary, and yet completely life-saving). I feel out the situation, and all seems well. I get exactly 5 steps away when I hear the gurgling sound of breakfast being revisited in the worst kind of way. There’s regurgitated formula for what seems like miles. I snatch him up as quickly as I can; a tiny gueyser of alumentum. This is his Mother’s first day at her new job, and it hasn’t even actually started yet.
As a woman in a professional kitchen, you will work twice as hard. You will be surrounded by boys (yes, "boys"). You will have to prove yourself more, get paid less, and not be taken as seriously as your male counterparts. Being a girl cook is wicked hard. And so is being a mother. Combine the two, but only if you are completely insane.