Home from school, I take one step over the threshold of our garage door before realizing something’s off. The familiar potent stench strangles my nostrils. I’m stifling gags as my feet shuffle forward. And I can feel my face turning the same avocado shade as our kitchen walls.
Nothing died.
Nothing’s burning.
There wasn’t a gas leak (although that might be better).
But something much worse. I try not to even say it out loud for fear my parents might hear, and I’d have planted the seed for a meal on next week’s menu.
Maybe if I’d prayed more, given to charity, been a better person, I wouldn’t be met with this fate. Because who really deserves it?
But here I am.
Split pea soup.
I can’t explain the taste. If I’ve ever had the stomach to try it, then I no longer remember. Or maybe I’ve blocked it out on purpose.
It reminds me of a repugnant sludge that Jack Black serves to orphans for lunch at church in the beginning of “Nacho Libre.”
And for once, I, too, find myself begging, “Can’t we ever have just a salad?”
If you couldn’t already tell by the produce constructed headline (if not, please get you’re eyes checked), yes, I have vegan parents.
But it really isn’t all that bad. Not like my sarcastic and melodramatic lede would infer.
Would I like for my pantry not to be filled with chick peas, sweet potatoes and nutritional yeast? Sure. Am I repulsed that my dad wants to make vegan “steak” he saw on the cooking channel, which is just a grilled slab of cauliflower? Absolutely. Am I a little tired of chugging ice water to make the kale go down easier? Well, of course.
And they weren’t always vegan. I can still remember the halcyon days when there was chicken for dinner instead of toasted tofu, or when my dad made our smoothies with milk instead of coconut water (which is what I imagine those hikers who run out of water supply and have to drink their own pee must taste).
But I guess it was a few years ago that something snapped. Maybe it was a midlife crisis or all the documentaries he had us watch on processed sugar and meat meat-packing industries. But instead of getting regrettable tattoos, growing a beer belly or quitting his job (that came later), he decided to go vegan.
And doctors might disagree, but I’d say that’s arguably worse. Because not only is he the one suffering over a pot of split pea soup now, I also have to suffer each time our fridge door opens, and those mushy, greenish brownish leftovers are giving me the thousand-yard stare.
Luckily, my parents aren’t the vegans you see going viral on TikTok who unironically protest killing animals with songs on their ukulele. Or think crystals have healing powers. Or debate waitresses on whether or not something was really “locally grown” or “fresh.”
They’re totally normal-ish.
My dad works out about twice a day. He works from home at a standing desk with special vitamin D lamps. He takes magnesium pills the size of my fist before bed. I’d like to say he’s Chris Traeger from Parks & Rec., minus the enthusiasm.
My mom instructs yoga in her free time, goes on walks religiously, and is one of those people that make me jealous who can convince themselves fruit is dessert.
It’s very important for my reputation to note that I myself am not vegan. I order lattes without oat milk, and put grilled chicken on my Chipotle bowl, and I’ve eaten the occasional pint of ice cream in one sitting (I’ve only been caught once, and was let off with a warning).
And most of the time I buy my own food.
But occasionally, when I’m feeling lazy, or my bank account is sad, I’ll stomach corn chowder or veggie fajitas where we pretend portobello mushrooms are steak.
And I’ll convince myself it’s pretty good as a little part of me inside dies.
The point is, living in a vegan or ingredient household does not mean you’re hopeless. There are ways of surviving which include copious bags of dark chocolate chips, frozen fruit or soy-based chicken strips. Or keeping humble stashes of graham crackers, fruit snacks and Goldfish under blankets at the foot of your bed.
But if there is one very important takeaway you should have, it’s that when life gives you split peas, please, for the love of God, never, ever, make split pea soup.
