Thanksgiving. The time for family. The time for cozy fires radiating warmth. The time for rich, spiced food. And of course, the time for a huge, juicy, roasted turkey.
Thanksgivings across America cover this basic outline more or less, but for some, like me, there’s one important, traditional, and prioritized Thanksgiving treat purposely omitted from my plate: the turkey.
I know, I know. What’s a Thanksgiving without that big bird? After all, Thanksgiving is oft referred to as “Turkey Day.”
However, for me, it’s a vegetarian Thanksgiving.
No, I don’t eat meat. Yes, I prefer my choice of cuisine. No, I don’t enjoy raw vegetables. On any given day, you’d think most people have never even heard of this strange, foreign “vegetarianism” I speak of.
My Thanksgiving is really no different from most. After my family members arrive at my dining room table, my carnivorous relatives do what they do best: locate the turkey.
Of course, as I watch the turkey being passed around the table and finally reach me, I have to shake my head and remind them. When it happens, I get one of three possible reactions.
The first one is the “I love meat” people. Upon finding out that they’re close to a meatophobe, they adopt condescending smiles, and their mouths form large “Oh”s. They make poor attempts to conceal their surprise and disgust as they slowly distance themselves from me, the freak. I swear, I’m not contagious.
The second reaction: As I deny the plate of turkey, the sensitive meat eaters already realize why I refused. They keep smiling and nodding their heads at me with praise. It’s almost like they’re saying, “Wow! Impressive! Keep it up!” They also add those extra seconds of eye contact when they try to telepathically tell me they understand why I am what I am. Thanks?
And the third reaction: that of the “hope-that-this-will-be-the- year” meat-eaters. These people are the best, as they pretend to for- get that I’m a vegetarian, offer me the food, and pray that I’ll suddenly take a bite. Even after my vigorous head shakes, they continue to hold the meat in front of me, as if the smell of cooked animal and the idea of eating it wasn’t what prompted me to become a vegetarian in the first place.
Ultimately, though, my feast is incredibly satisfying, even with- out the turkey. Being a vegetarian doesn’t mean you eat food found on a forest floor—especially since my mom is the cook and a fellow vegetarian.
I do eat the classic Thanksgiving foods. Warm, homemade biscuits and mashed potatoes with cranberry sauce will always be on my plate, along with stuffing, sweet potatoes, and a hearty salad.
However, being a vegetarian also entails the necessary taste- bud adventures to meatless protein. Fortunately, I can always find a bowl of quinoa, a grain-like dish easily mixed with other vegetables and flavors. Teriyaki-baked tofu is a vegetarian’s best friend and will always be next to the stuffed Portobello mushrooms. And of course, there’s tempeh, which is perfect when stir-fried with kale.
After the meal, though, comes the course meat-eaters and vegetarians alike can fixate on.
Oh, yes. Just like the omnivores, we herbivores eat dessert.
By the end of the night—after the stomachs bloat, pant waists tighten and crumbs speckle the tablecloth—my Thanksgiving has been little or no different than most people.
The platter of turkey that repeatedly ends up near my plate proves that meat-eaters really don’t give up.
