A post-vegetarian dilemma

Post-vegetarian: a term used here, not to denote the school of thought which radically breaks away from and criticises a meat-free diet (see other post-isms), but a person who used to be vegetarian and now eats burgers.

Post-vegetarians typically insist upon recounting various uninteresting facts about their past diet, usually including the length of time for which they maintained it, to real and non-vegetarians alike.

Being post-vegetarian is not without its problems.

Besides a short period of pescetarianism and an even shorter period of veganism somewhere along the way, I was vegetarian for approximately six years, three hundred and nine days. This being a reasonably long time, it is safe to say that I have acquired a fair amount of information regarding which foods are vegetarian-friendly (beans, hummus, tofu) and which are not (steak, pesto, kittens).

These seven, knowledgeable, meat-free years came to a swift end last December, however, when I found myself soaring over Germany in a giant metal contraption, feeling more delicate than I have ever felt before (hungover doesn’t even begin to describe it), and very much struggling to communicate with the air-hostess due to my almost inexistent knowledge of the German language. Bravely brushing these monumental problems aside, I mustered up the strength to choose a plain cheese sandwich from the trolley before settling back down in my seat for some well-earned hunger-quenching. I was soon to learn that sandwiches these days are very adept at camouflage and cunning. It was only when I removed the wrapper that I realised an imposter was in our midst. It was ham and cheese.

On occasions since, when I have recounted this gripping tale to friends and family, I am usually asked the question “why did you not just take out the ham?” Not only is this incredibly rude but also, I feel, an excellent example of the way hindsight always makes things seem much easier than they actually were.

Incapacitated by hunger and hangover, I ate the sandwich.

Ever since this fateful plane journey (truly a Spielberg-esque vision: camera pans to girl sitting alone on plane, she occupies window seat…begins to eat sandwich, screen goes dark), it must be said that my day-to-day life has become much easier.

Gone are the days of scanning food labels and lists of ingredients for gelatine and rennet and other secret non-vegetarian ingredients. Gone are the days of travelling abroad and being presented with a bowl of chickpeas in vinegar or plain bread because [insert nationality here] think vegetarians are “crazy”. Gone are the days of awkwardly refusing food which friends or family had lovingly cooked for me, blissfully unaware that whatever it was actually contained half a cow.

The truth is I knew too much. When I first became a vegetarian, aged thirteen, I didn’t know that many of the food products I liked contained meat. Obviously I knew there’d be no more chicken nuggets or Sunday dinners with gravy (vegetarian gravy is basically salty water), but there were a million and one surprises too. Haribo were one of the first, then my favourite yoghurts, Worcester sauce, some kinds of fizzy drinks, pesto, cheese and onion crisps, certain kinds of chocolate, parmesan, and (the most difficult of all) many, many types of alcohol.*

With each new discovery, I was placing more and more restrictions on what I ate and drank, and finding it increasingly difficult to do so (especially last year on my travel-filled year abroad). I was probably edging towards eating meat again of my own accord, when the hungover-ham-and-cheese-sandwich occurred. It was just, as they say in Germany, der Schinken-Brötche, er Strohhalm, der den Rücken des Kamels bricht.**

And so we reach the post-vegetarian dilemma: since it was a heightened awareness of just how many foodstuffs aren’t actually vegetarian and this lack of choice which tipped me over the edge, should I (or should I not) enlighten other vegetarians when they unknowingly consume meat?

Perhaps I’m over-thinking it, but for me at least, each new discovery felt like that earth-shattering day when I was nine years old, sat down by my family and forced to face the Truth about Santa. Is it better to preserve their blissful ignorance, as they sit there, munching on their not-quite-vegetarian sandwiches, or is my role in this world to be a destroyer of happiness but purveyor of truth?

As with all dichotomies, there is a cowardly third option: submitting an article to The Stand… Louise, if you’re reading this, put down the toastie, pesto isn’t vegetarian.
*This list is by no means exclusive.
**That well known idiom: the ham sandwich that breaks the camel’s back