Vegetarian Friends Quotes

Animals are my friends...and I don't eat my friends.

Men always say that as the defining compliment, don’t they? She’s a cool girl. Being the Cool Girl means I am a hot, brilliant, funny woman who adores football, poker, dirty jokes, and burping, who plays video games, drinks cheap beer, loves threesomes and anal sex, and jams hot dogs and hamburgers into her mouth like she’s hosting the world’s biggest culinary gang bang while somehow maintaining a size 2, because Cool Girls are above all hot. Hot and understanding. Cool Girls never get angry; they only smile in a chagrined, loving manner and let their men do whatever they want. Go ahead, shit on me, I don’t mind, I’m the Cool Girl. Men actually think this girl exists. Maybe they’re fooled because so many women are willing to pretend to be this girl. For a long time Cool Girl offended me. I used to see men – friends, coworkers, strangers – giddy over these awful pretender women, and I’d want to sit these men down and calmly say: You are not dating a woman, you are dating a woman who has watched too many movies written by socially awkward men who’d like to believe that this kind of woman exists and might kiss them. I’d want to grab the poor guy by his lapels or messenger bag and say: The bitch doesn’t really love chili dogs that much – no one loves chili dogs that much! And the Cool Girls are even more pathetic: They’re not even pretending to be the woman they want to be, they’re pretending to be the woman a man wants them to be. Oh, and if you’re not a Cool Girl, I beg you not to believe that your man doesn’t want the Cool Girl. It may be a slightly different version – maybe he’s a vegetarian, so Cool Girl loves seitan and is great with dogs; or maybe he’s a hipster artist, so Cool Girl is a tattooed, bespectacled nerd who loves comics. There are variations to the window dressing, but believe me, he wants Cool Girl, who is basically the girl who likes every fucking thing he likes and doesn’t ever complain. (How do you know you’re not Cool Girl? Because he says things like: “I like strong women.” If he says that to you, he will at some point fuck someone else. Because “I like strong women” is code for “I hate strong women.”)

I made the choice to be vegan because I will not eat (or wear, or use) anything that could have an emotional response to its death or captivity. I can well imagine what that must feel like for our non-human friends - the fear, the terror, the pain - and I will not cause such suffering to a fellow living being.

She makes a silent vow to be a vegetarian from now on even if she has to starve to do it. Better that than even the remote possibility of eating one's friends and fellow sufferers.

People looked at me, shocked. I gave them a nice big smile. That's right, look what big teeth I have. I knew I was a vegetarian, but aside from Jim and a few friends, nobody else did. Besides, just because I didn't eat meat, didn't mean I wouldn't bite.

The horse and the cow, the rabbit and the cat, the deer and the hare, the pheasant and the lark, please us better as friends than as meat.

Something I've never been able to adapt to, to understand is how they can lavish such love and care on the animals and then see them sold for slaughter. I don't dare say anything about it, though. Richard and his friends would be down on me in a flash. But there's some kind of cold, unfeeling contradiction in that business.

Love is at the heart of the world, just as it is at the heart of your life. Your relationships with your lover, your family, your friends, and the world around you define the quality of your emotional wholeness and reflect your relationship with yourself.

Cows are exceptionally gentle, loving beings who form strong bonds with their family and friends. Separating any mother from her child, as is routine practise within the dairy industry, inflicts upon both a cruelty beyond words.

it is a federal system of sadistic torture, vivisection, and animal genocide, which has been carried on for decades under the fraudulent guise of respectable medical research. And nobody on the outside knows, or wants to know, or is willing to find out. My parents, my friends, my teachers, wouldnt listen to me, or suggested that if it was bothering me that much I just had to quit the job. Just like that. As if that would have solved anything. As if I could ever live with such cowardice. You can't imagine, or maybe you can, how many people are convinced - without knowing the first thing about it - Animal research is essential. Americans have been hopelessly brainwashed on this issue. The animal rights people, by and large, acknowledge the essential futility of trying to change the system. So they address the smaller issues, fighting for legislation which would provide one extra visit per week to the labs by a custodian of the US dept of agriculture. Or demanding that a squirrel monkey be given an extra 12 square inches in his holding pen, before being led to the slaughter. That sort of thing. For whomever, and whatever it's worth, I hope my little write up is clear. I dont have the guts to do whats necessary. I pray there's someone out there who does. God help all of us.

If the world after coronavirus is not going to be a much more greener, much more environmentally friendly and much more vegetarian world, human beings will deserve a much worse virus than coronavirus!

This is why my friend Piper became a vegetarian.)

As told by Kafka's close friend Max Brod: "Suddenly he began to speak to the fish in their illuminated tanks. 'Now at least I can look at you in peace, I don't eat you anymore.' It was the time he turned strictly vegetarian.

Avie Tevanian, a lanky and gregarious engineer at NeXT who had become Jobs’s friend, remembers that every now and then, when they were going out to dinner, they would stop by Chrisann’s house to pick up Lisa. “He was very sweet to her,” Tevanian recalled. “He was a vegetarian, and so was Chrisann, but she wasn’t. He was fine with that. He suggested she order chicken, and she

To expect the world to treat you fairly because you’re a good person, my friend, is like expecting a bull not to charge you because you are a vegetarian.

I wasn't vegetarian yet -- I was young and my conscience still under construction. (Kelly Johnson)

(Hey, I’m sorry. Back then, people butchered animals all the time for meat or hide or shell or whatever. This is why my friend Piper became a vegetarian.)

To expect the world to treat you fairly because you’re a good person, my new friend, is like expecting a bull not to charge you because you are a vegetarian.

There’s a vegetarian takeaway place in Brighton called Infinity, where I would eat sometimes. I went there the first time I’d gone out in public after Arthur had died. There was a woman who worked there and I was always friendly with her, just the normal pleasantries, but I liked her. I was standing in the queue and she asked me what I wanted and it felt a little strange, because there was no acknowledgement of anything. She treated me like anyone else, matter-of-factly, professionally. She gave me my food and I gave her the money and – ah, sorry, it’s quite hard to talk about this – as she gave me back my change, she squeezed my hand. Purposefully. It was such a quiet act of kindness. The simplest and most articulate of gestures, but, at the same time, it meant more than all that anybody had tried to tell me – you know, because of the failure of language in the face of catastrophe. She wished the best for me, in that moment. There was something truly moving to me about that simple, wordless act of compassion.

He gestured toward the rice pudding. "I put cinnamon on it. Cancels out the cholesterol. Read about it on the Men's Health Web site." Her lips twitched. "That's bullshit." She eyed the banana cream pie. "What cheap pop-science justification have you got for that one?" He contemplated the pie. "Well, bananas are good for you. Lots of potassium, which helps you shed water weight, right? And there's no trans fats in the pie crust. I can promise you that." "Yeah?" Her lips pursed, suppressing a smile. "So what is in it?" He grinned wickedly. "Lard," he announced. "Artery clogging, cholesterol-laden pig fat. Hope you're not a vegetarian.

When I was nine, I had a babysitter who didn't want to hurt anything. She put it just like that when I asked her why she wasn't having chicken with my older brother and me: "I don't want to hurt anything." [...] What our babysitter said made sense to me, not only because it seemed true, but because it was the extension to food of everything my parents had taught me. We don't hurt family members. We don't hurt friends or strangers. We don't even hurt upholstered furniture. My not having thought to include animals in that list didn't make them the exceptions to it. It just made me a child, ignorant of the world's workings. Until I wasn't. At which point I had to change my life.

Through knowing death we can hold a beacon of love for every moment that has just passed, for every friend who has lost a friend, for every child who has lost a parent, for every parent who has lost a child; for any suffering anywhere.

When I look into the eyes of our animal friends, I feel as if it’s the universe itself looking back at me, a profoundly beautiful, deep, and knowing presence. I sense this universal spirit is waiting to see how I will treat them, judging my worthiness of the gift of their companionship. I feel their beauty and purity in the very depths of my soul, and in the process of caring for them and trying to protect them from harm, my heart fills with a love that feels infinite…

Two friends are ordering lunch. One says, 'I'm in the mood for a burger,' and orders it. The other says, 'I'm in the mood for a burger,' but remembers that there are things more important to him than what he is in the mood for at any given moment, and orders something else. Who is the sentimentalist?

That night at the Brooklyn party, I was playing the girl who was in style, the girl a man like Nick wants: the Cool Girl. Men always say that as the defining compliment, don’t they? She’s a cool girl. Being the Cool Girl means I am a hot, brilliant, funny woman who adores football, poker, dirty jokes, and burping, who plays video games, drinks cheap beer, loves threesomes and anal sex, and jams hot dogs and hamburgers into her mouth like she’s hosting the world’s biggest culinary gang bang while somehow maintaining a size 2, because Cool Girls are above all hot. Hot and understanding. Cool Girls never get angry; they only smile in a chagrined, loving manner and let their men do whatever they want. Go ahead, shit on me, I don’t mind, I’m the Cool Girl. Men actually think this girl exists. Maybe they’re fooled because so many women are willing to pretend to be this girl. For a long time Cool Girl offended me. I used to see men—friends, coworkers, strangers—giddy over these awful pretender women, and I’d want to sit these men down and calmly say: You are not dating a woman, you are dating a woman who has watched too many movies written by socially awkward men who’d like to believe that this kind of woman exists and might kiss them. I’d want to grab the poor guy by his lapels or messenger bag and say: The bitch doesn’t really love chili dogs that much—no one loves chili dogs that much! And the Cool Girls are even more pathetic: They’re not even pretending to be the woman they want to be, they’re pretending to be the woman a man wants them to be. Oh, and if you’re not a Cool Girl, I beg you not to believe that your man doesn’t want the Cool Girl. It may be a slightly different version—maybe he’s a vegetarian, so Cool Girl loves seitan and is great with dogs; or maybe he’s a hipster artist, so Cool Girl is a tattooed, bespectacled nerd who loves comics. There are variations to the window dressing, but believe me, he wants Cool Girl, who is basically the girl who likes every fucking thing he likes and doesn’t ever complain. (How do you know you’re not Cool Girl? Because he says things like: “I like strong women.” If he says that to you, he will at some point fuck someone else. Because “I like strong women” is code for “I hate strong women.”) I waited patiently—years—for the pendulum to swing the other way, for men to start reading Jane Austen, learn how to knit, pretend to love cosmos, organize scrapbook parties, and make out with each other while we leer. And then we’d say, Yeah, he’s a Cool Guy. But it never happened. Instead, women across the nation colluded in our degradation! Pretty soon Cool Girl became the standard girl. Men believed she existed—she wasn’t just a dreamgirl one in a million. Every girl was supposed to be this girl, and if you weren’t, then there was something wrong with you. But it’s tempting to be Cool Girl. For someone like me, who likes to win, it’s tempting to want to be the girl every guy wants. When I met Nick, I knew immediately that was what he wanted, and for him, I guess I was willing to try. I will accept my portion of blame. The thing is, I was crazy about him at first. I found him perversely exotic, a good ole Missouri boy. He was so damn nice to be around. He teased things out in me that I didn’t know existed: a lightness, a humor, an ease. It was as if he hollowed me out and filled me with feathers. He helped me be Cool

Jeremiah came over after a while. He sat on the edge of my chair and drank from my thermos of Kool-Aid. “She’s pretty,” I said. “Who? Yolie?” He shrugged. “She’s nice. One of my many admirers.” “Ha!” “So what about you? Cam Cameron, huh? Cam the vegetarian. Cam the straight edge.” I tried not to smile. “So what? I like him.” “He’s kind of a dork.” “That’s what I like about him. He’s…different.” He frowned slightly. “Different from who?” “I don’t know.” But I did know. I knew exactly who he was different from. “You mean he’s not a dick like Conrad?” I laughed, and so did he. “Yeah, exactly. He’s nice.” “Just nice, huh?” “More than nice.” “So you’re over him, then? For real?” We both knew the “him” he was talking about. “Yes,” I told him. “I don’t believe you,” Jeremiah said, watching me closely-just like when he was trying to figure out what kind of hand I had in Uno. I took off my sunglasses and looked him in the eye. “It’s true. I’m over him.” “We’ll see,” Jeremiah said, standing up. “My break’s over. Are you okay over here? Wait around and I’ll drive us home. I can put your bike in the back.” I nodded, and watched him walk back to the lifeguard chair. Jeremiah was a good friend. He’d always been good to me, watched out for me.

If I could be any animal, I would be a wish dragon that would only appear when a kid needed it. Based on my experience with imaginary friends, they're needed. But dragons eat meat, and I couldn't do that. So I'd have to be a vegetarian dragon; a thin dragon, because I'd spend a lot of time looking for food. That's a ton of carrots, apples, oranges...Unless I was a tiny, baby dragon. Then I'd just need, like, a little slice of cheese.

Jobs and Kottke became serious vegetarians during their freshman year. “Steve got into it even more than I did,” said Kottke. “He was living off Roman Meal cereal.” They would go shopping at a farmers’ co-op, where Jobs would buy a box of cereal, which would last a week, and other bulk health food. “He would buy flats of dates and almonds and lots of carrots, and he got a Champion juicer and we’d make carrot juice and carrot salads. There is a story about Steve turning orange from eating so many carrots, and there is some truth to that.” Friends remember him having, at times, a sunset-like orange hue.

Our Good for You portfolio was growing elsewhere, too. I got a call one day from Ofra Strauss, the CEO of Strauss-Elite Food, our snacks partner in Israel. She asked to see me in Purchase and showed up with a huge hamper of Mediterranean dips—hummus, baba ghanoush, you name it. She laid them all out with fresh pita bread on my conference table, and we enjoyed a picnic of products from Sabra, a New York–based company that Strauss had recently purchased. It was a delicious lineup—totally vegetarian—and a great potential mate to Stacy’s Pita Chips, which we’d acquired a couple of years earlier. Less than a year later, Sabra and Frito-Lay signed a joint venture, and Sabra now leads the US hummus market. More important for me, Ofra is one of my dearest friends.

Myron was just getting comfortable when he heard a toilet flush. He looked a question at Win. “I am not alone,” Win said. “Oh.” Myron adjusted himself on the couch. “A woman?” “Your gifts,” Win said. “They never cease to amaze.” “Anybody I know?” Myron asked. Win shook his head. “Not even somebody I know.” The norm. Myron looked steadily at his friend. “You want to talk about this?” “No.” “I’m here if you do.” “Yes, I see that.” Win swished around the drink in the snifter. He finished it in one gulp and reached for the crystal decanter. There was a slight slur in his speech. Myron tried to remember the last time he had seen Win the vegetarian, the master of several martial arts, the transcendental meditator, the man so at ease and in focus with his surroundings, have too much to drink. It had been a very long time. “I have a golf question for you,” Myron said. Win nodded for him to proceed.

Stopping before them, St. Vincent confided, “I would have found you sooner, but I was attacked by a swarm of dingy-dippers.” His voice lowered with conspiratorial furtiveness. “And I don’t wish to alarm either of you, but I had to warn you…they’re planning to serve kidney pudding in the fifth course.” “I can manage that,” Lillian said ruefully. “It is only animals served in their natural state that I seem to have difficulty with.” “Of course you do, darling. We’re barbarians, the lot of us, and you were perfectly right to be appalled by the calves’ heads. I don’t like them either. In fact, I rarely consume beef in any form.” “Are you a vegetarian, then?” Lillian asked, having heard the word frequently of late. Many discussions had centered on the topic of the vegetable system of diet that was being promoted by a hospital society in Ramsgate. St. Vincent responded with a dazzling smile. “No, sweet, I’m a cannibal.” “St. Vincent,” Westcliff growled in warning, seeing Lillian’s confusion. The viscount grinned unrepentantly. “It’s a good thing I happened along, Miss Bowman. You’re not safe alone with Westcliff, you know.” “I’m not?” Lillian parried, tensing inwardly as she reflected that he never would have made the glib comment had he known of the intimate encounters between her and the earl. She didn’t dare look at Westcliff, but she apprehended the immediate stillness of the masculine form so close to hers. “No, indeed,” St. Vincent assured her. “It’s the morally upright ones who do the worst things in private. Whereas with an obvious reprobate such as myself, you couldn’t be in safer hands. Here, you had better return to the dining hall under my protection. God knows what sort of lascivious scheme is lurking in the earl’s mind.” Giggling, Lillian stood from the bench, enjoying the sight of Westcliff being teased. He regarded his friend with a slight scowl as he too rose to his feet.

I shared my love of books with Benny, but Aunt Yolanda opened my eyes to the world of food as art, cooking without cans. She introduced me to the magic of spices, the exotic perfume of fresh herbs crushed between fingers. Younger than my mother, she was rounded in just the right spots, from her love of good food, and when we talked she looked right at me and listened, nodding and laughing loudly when I'd tell jokes, holding my hand when we'd walk, as if we were best friends or sisters. She liked Anne and Christine, too, but I could tell I was her favorite. She took me with her on shopping trips, to the fish market near the waterfront and the farm stands out west. Sometimes she'd journey to the Asian grocers in Northeast Portland or the hippie vegetarian markets on Hawthorne to find something special. We'd come home laden with ingredients that I knew my mother had never heard of, and the resulting feasts would fill me with a yearning to go to different places, to try new things.

the Cool Girl. Men always say that as the defining compliment, don’t they? She’s a cool girl. Being the Cool Girl means I am a hot, brilliant, funny woman who adores football, poker, dirty jokes, and burping, who plays video games, drinks cheap beer, loves threesomes and anal sex, and jams hot dogs and hamburgers into her mouth like she’s hosting the world’s biggest culinary gang bang while somehow maintaining a size 2, because Cool Girls are above all hot. Hot and understanding. Cool Girls never get angry; they only smile in a chagrined, loving manner and let their men do whatever they want. Go ahead, shit on me, I don’t mind, I’m the Cool Girl. Men actually think this girl exists. Maybe they’re fooled because so many women are willing to pretend to be this girl. For a long time Cool Girl offended me. I used to see men – friends, coworkers, strangers – giddy over these awful pretender women, and I’d want to sit these men down and calmly say: You are not dating a woman, you are dating a woman who has watched too many movies written by socially awkward men who’d like to believe that this kind of woman exists and might kiss them. I’d want to grab the poor guy by his lapels or messenger bag and say: The bitch doesn’t really love chili dogs that much – no one loves chili dogs that much! And the Cool Girls are even more pathetic: They’re not even pretending to be the woman they want to be, they’re pretending to be the woman a man wants them to be. Oh, and if you’re not a Cool Girl, I beg you not to believe that your man doesn’t want the Cool Girl. It may be a slightly different version – maybe he’s a vegetarian, so Cool Girl loves seitan and is great with dogs; or maybe he’s a hipster artist, so Cool Girl is a tattooed, bespectacled nerd who loves comics. There are variations to the window dressing, but believe me, he wants Cool Girl, who is basically the girl who likes every fucking thing he likes and doesn’t ever complain. (How do you know you’re not Cool Girl? Because he says things like: ‘I like strong women.’ If he says that to you, he will at some point fuck someone else. Because ‘I like strong women’ is code for ‘I hate strong women.’)

Spaghetti alla puttanesca is typically made with tomatoes, olives, anchovies, capers, and garlic. It means, literally, "spaghetti in the style of a prostitute." It is a sloppy dish, the tomatoes and oil making the spaghetti lubricated and slippery. It is the sort of sauce that demands you slurp the noodles Goodfellas style, staining your cheeks with flecks of orange and red. It is very salty and very tangy and altogether very strong; after a small plate, you feel like you've had a visceral and significant experience. There are varying accounts as to when and how the dish originated- but the most likely explanation is that it became popular in the mid-twentieth century. The first documented mention of it is in Raffaele La Capria's 1961 novel, Ferito a Morte. According to the Italian Pasta Makers Union, spaghetti alla puttanesca was a very popular dish throughout the sixties, but its exact genesis is not quite known. Sandro Petti, a famous Napoli chef and co-owner of Ischian restaurant Rangio Fellone, claims to be its creator. Near closing time one evening, a group of customers sat at one of his tables and demanded to be served a meal. Running low on ingredients, Petti told them he didn't have enough to make anything, but they insisted. They were tired, and they were hungry, and they wanted pasta. "Facci una puttanata qualsiasi!" they cried. "Make any kind of garbage!" The late-night eater is not usually the most discerning. Petti raided the kitchen, finding four tomatoes, two olives, and a jar of capers, the base of the now-famous spaghetti dish; he included it on his menu the next day under the name spaghetti alla puttanesca. Others have their own origin myths. But the most common theory is that it was a quick, satisfying dish that the working girls of Naples could knock up with just a few key ingredients found at the back of the fridge- after a long and unforgiving night. As with all dishes containing tomatoes, there are lots of variations in technique. Some use a combination of tinned and fresh tomatoes, while others opt for a squirt of puree. Some require specifically cherry or plum tomatoes, while others go for a smooth, premade pasta. Many suggest that a teaspoon of sugar will "open up the flavor," though that has never really worked for me. I prefer fresh, chopped, and very ripe, cooked for a really long time. Tomatoes always take longer to cook than you think they will- I rarely go for anything less than an hour. This will make the sauce stronger, thicker, and less watery. Most recipes include onions, but I prefer to infuse the oil with onions, frying them until brown, then chucking them out. I like a little kick in most things, but especially in pasta, so I usually go for a generous dousing of chili flakes. I crush three or four cloves of garlic into the oil, then add any extras. The classic is olives, anchovies, and capers, though sometimes I add a handful of fresh spinach, which nicely soaks up any excess water- and the strange, metallic taste of cooked spinach adds an interesting extra dimension. The sauce is naturally quite salty, but I like to add a pinch of sea or Himalayan salt, too, which gives it a slightly more buttery taste, as opposed to the sharp, acrid salt of olives and anchovies. I once made this for a vegetarian friend, substituting braised tofu for anchovies. Usually a solid fish replacement, braised tofu is more like tuna than anchovy, so it was a mistake for puttanesca. It gave the dish an unpleasant solidity and heft. You want a fish that slips and melts into the pasta, not one that dominates it. In terms of garnishing, I go for dried oregano or fresh basil (never fresh oregano or dried basil) and a modest sprinkle of cheese. Oh, and I always use spaghetti. Not fettuccine. Not penne. Not farfalle. Not rigatoni. Not even linguine. Always spaghetti.

Men always say that as the defining compliment, don’t they? She’s a cool girl. Being the Cool Girl means I am a hot, brilliant, funny woman who adores football, poker, dirty jokes, and burping, who plays video games, drinks cheap beer, loves threesomes and anal sex, and jams hot dogs and hamburgers into her mouth like she’s hosting the world’s biggest culinary gang bang while somehow maintaining a size 2, because Cool Girls are above all hot. Hot and understanding. Cool Girls never get angry; they only smile in a chagrined, loving manner and let their men do whatever they want. Go ahead, shit on me, I don’t mind, I’m the Cool Girl. Men actually think this girl exists. Maybe they’re fooled because so many women are willing to pretend to be this girl. For a long time Cool Girl offended me. I used to see men – friends, coworkers, strangers – giddy over these awful pretender women, and I’d want to sit these men down and calmly say: You are not dating a woman, you are dating a woman who has watched too many movies written by socially awkward men who’d like to believe that this kind of woman exists and might kiss them. I’d want to grab the poor guy by his lapels or messenger bag and say: The bitch doesn’t really love chili dogs that much – no one loves chili dogs that much! And the Cool Girls are even more pathetic: They’re not even pretending to be the woman they want to be, they’re pretending to be the woman a man wants them to be. Oh, and if you’re not a Cool Girl, I beg you not to believe that your man doesn’t want the Cool Girl. It may be a slightly different version – maybe he’s a vegetarian, so Cool Girl loves seitan and is great with dogs; or maybe he’s a hipster artist, so Cool Girl is a tattooed, bespectacled nerd who loves comics. There are variations to the window dressing, but believe me, he wants Cool Girl, who is basically the girl who likes every fucking thing he likes and doesn’t ever complain. (How do you know you’re not Cool Girl? Because he says things like: “I like strong women.” If he says that to you, he will at some point fuck someone else. Because “I like strong women” is code for “I hate strong women.

And all I can think about is that it's not over and I'm tired and I'm ready to go but I'm still here. And I have to do it again and again and again." He leaned back in his chair. "You think about that before you tell me I've got it easy." I stayed silent a while before speaking. "So why don't you end it?" "Suicide?" "If your life is such a hell," I asked, "why bother? Why go through it again and again and all those times?" "Because of..." He stopped and looked at the ceiling. After a moment he shrugged. "Because of children," he said, "because of smiles and sunshine and ice cream." "You've got to be kidding." "You don't like ice cream?" Elijah shook his head, "It's the best. Imagine how excited I was when someone finally invented it. " "Sunshine and smiles don't make all that other stuff go away." I said, "This isn't a fairy land." "No," he said. "It's the real world. And the real world is the most amazing thing any of us will ever experience. Have you ever climbed a mountain? Walked through a garden? Played with a child? This isn't exactly a revelation John. People have been praising the simple pleasures since even before I was born, and that's a very long time." "You don't do any of those things." "But I have my memories," Said Elijah. "And I have even simpler things. Music. Food. Everybody likes bacon." "I'm a vegetarian." "Asparagus then," said Elijah, "roasted in pan. A little olive oil and a little salt - you the get the most incredible flavor - almost like a nut. But deep and rich and the textures just perfect..." "I've tried it." "The world is more than sadness," said Elijah, "i have a hundred thousand memories in my head. I can't remember all of them, or maybe even most of them, but they are so much happier than sad. For every dead mother or brother or child there are a hundred breezes, a hundred sunsets, a hundred memories of falling in love. Have you ever kissed anyone, John?" "I don't see how that's any of your business." "A first kiss is important. Most people only get one. But I can remember a hundred thousand of them. How could I give that up?" he shook his dead, smiling for the first time. "The world never gets old, John.

THIS IS MY ABC BOOK of people God loves. We’ll start with . . .           A: God loves Adorable people. God loves those who are Affable and Affectionate. God loves Ambulance drivers, Artists, Accordion players, Astronauts, Airplane pilots, and Acrobats. God loves African Americans, the Amish, Anglicans, and Animal husbandry workers. God loves Animal-rights Activists, Astrologers, Adulterers, Addicts, Atheists, and Abortionists.           B: God loves Babies. God loves Bible readers. God loves Baptists and Barbershop quartets . . . Boys and Boy Band members . . . Blondes, Brunettes, and old ladies with Blue hair. He loves the Bedraggled, the Beat up, and the Burnt out . . . the Bullied and the Bullies . . . people who are Brave, Busy, Bossy, Bitter, Boastful, Bored, and Boorish. God loves all the Blue men in the Blue Man Group.           C: God loves Crystal meth junkies,           D: Drag queens,           E: and Elvis impersonators.           F: God loves the Faithful and the Faithless, the Fearful and the Fearless. He loves people from Fiji, Finland, and France; people who Fight for Freedom, their Friends, and their right to party; and God loves people who sound like Fat Albert . . . “Hey, hey, hey!”           G: God loves Greedy Guatemalan Gynecologists.           H: God loves Homosexuals, and people who are Homophobic, and all the Homo sapiens in between.           I: God loves IRS auditors.           J: God loves late-night talk-show hosts named Jimmy (Fallon or Kimmel), people who eat Jim sausages (Dean or Slim), people who love Jams (hip-hop or strawberry), singers named Justin (Timberlake or Bieber), and people who aren’t ready for this Jelly (Beyoncé’s or grape).           K: God loves Khloe Kardashian, Kourtney Kardashian, Kim Kardashian, and Kanye Kardashian. (Please don’t tell him I said that.)           L: God loves people in Laos and people who are feeling Lousy. God loves people who are Ludicrous, and God loves Ludacris. God loves Ladies, and God loves Lady Gaga.           M: God loves Ministers, Missionaries, and Meter maids; people who are Malicious, Meticulous, Mischievous, and Mysterious; people who collect Marbles and people who have lost their Marbles . . . and Miley Cyrus.           N: God loves Ninjas, Nudists, and Nose pickers,           O: Obstetricians, Orthodontists, Optometrists, Ophthalmologists, and Overweight Obituary writers,           P: Pimps, Pornographers, and Pedophiles,           Q: the Queen of England, the members of the band Queen, and Queen Latifah.           R: God loves the people of Rwanda and the Rebels who committed genocide against them.           S: God loves Strippers in Stilettos working on the Strip in Sin City;           T: it’s not unusual that God loves Tom Jones.           U: God loves people from the United States, the United Kingdom, and the United Arab Emirates; Ukrainians and Uruguayans, the Unemployed and Unemployment inspectors; blind baseball Umpires and shady Used-car salesmen. God loves Ushers, and God loves Usher.           V: God loves Vegetarians in Virginia Beach, Vegans in Vietnam, and people who eat lots of Vanilla bean ice cream in Las Vegas.           W: The great I AM loves will.i.am. He loves Waitresses who work at Waffle Houses, Weirdos who have gotten lots of Wet Willies, and Weight Watchers who hide Whatchamacallits in their Windbreakers.           X: God loves X-ray technicians.           Y: God loves You.           Z: God loves Zoologists who are preparing for the Zombie apocalypse. God . . . is for the rest of us. And we have the responsibility, the honor, of letting the world know that God is for them, and he’s inviting them into a life-changing relationship with him. So let ’em know.

I can't speak to whether vegetarianism is healthy. But as Alcott realized, it offers something that other diets cannot: an identity. Once can be a vegetarian, while most other diets are something one can do. He recognized that a diet wasn't merely how one ate, but how one lived.

Based on the findings of a recent qualitative survey carried out in Switzerland, in fact, most of us have up to ten discreet interdependent social identities—identities, the study concludes, which are often in conflict.16 Let’s imagine a middle-aged bank teller living in Pensacola, Florida. He is a father, a son and a husband. He is a Floridian. He is a bank employee. He is also a bicyclist and a recreational runner, and at night, drinking with his friends, he is “the funny one.” He is also a vegetarian, an amateur guitarist, and on weekends he helps coach soccer at his daughter’s high school. Then there are his online identities, including his Facebook, Twitter and Instagram selves. Most surprising is that the man’s ethical mind-set, honesty, sociability and even level of social engagement changes from personality to personality. Imagine that in his professional role, for example, he may be primed to dissembling, or outright deceit, while simultaneously, as a dad, he finds dishonesty repellent.

I treat vegetarianism as a phase that might any second end without warning.

Rich people fetishize even what they eschew, the food they cannot eat: it makes them special. Here in Chicago, having people over for dinner is a logistical feat. Some of our friends are gluten-free by choice, while others decline all refined sugar on principle; some are vegan and some merely ovo-lacto vegetarian; some won’t consume palm oil because of the rainforests and tiger habitats. Some are on that paleo diet, while others are merely lactose intolerant. It takes a spreadsheet.

The Earth appears to be flat, and the sun, which looks like it is smaller than the Earth, appears to be moving around the earth. We know better only because we are reliably advised that our initial sensory impressions are incorrect. In a similar way, we get some of our ethical beliefs from direct intuitive perception, but we also rely on the ethical beliefs of those around us to shape our own beliefs and actions. We are much more likely to be vegetarians if our friends are vegetarians. We are much less likely to support gun control if our friends are gun enthusiasts.

then, people butchered animals all the time for meat or hide or shell or whatever. This is why my friend Piper became a vegetarian.)

Svetlana entered wholeheartedly into Indian life, wearing a sari and eating the family’s vegetarian food. She walked about the village and visited with Brajesh’s old friends, but she had no illusions about the complexities and compromises of life in India. She found the caste system, with its seemingly ineradicable rules, disturbing.

The Protein Myth is so ingrained in us that the first thing family and friends will ask a newly declared vegetarian is how they will get their protein. The fact is, protein is easy to find. A head of Romaine lettuce has 106 calories and 8 grams of protein. Eat six of them and you get 636 calories and 48 grams of protein, all the protein a 132-pound person needs in a day. Nobody is recommending that as a diet, but it illustrates that as long as you are eating adequate calories of natural, healthful foods, the fabled protein problem almost takes care of itself.

The link between ideas and action was a theme which featured large in the life of Mahatma Gandhi. It is not easy to decide to what extent, if at all, concepts of the West influenced him in his youth. He came from a traditional family in Gujarat, and had no contacts with westerners in his early years. However, the event which he regarded as a tragedy of his childhood, the secret eating of meat, was caused chiefly by his notion that it was meat-eating which had made the English powerful. Later, as a young man not quite twenty, he persuaded his reluctant and none-too-affluent family to send him to England to train as a barrister. Gandhi, who could be so frank about some matters, was reticent about the sentiments which had spurred him on to this venture. He simply wrote in his autobiography that he jumped at the chance to get away from the difficult studies at his college, when a family friend suggested that he should go to study in England. Reaching England, he became an ‘aspirant after being an English gentleman’ for about three months, then turned into a serious student and gradually pared his expenses down to the bare necessities. Gandhi had promised his mother that he would not touch meat in England, an undertaking which caused him some hardship until he discovered a vegetarian restaurant. At the same time he discovered books on vegetarianism. These made him a vegetarian by choice, when previously he had felt bound by his vow and had looked forward to becoming a meat eater ‘freely and openly some day’.37 It was an early personal experience of ideas as an aid to the better working of action. Gandhi was of a practical turn of mind that looked for ideas to suit the needs of situations. In spite of his deeply ingrained Hinduism, Gandhi’s intellectual flexibility made him accept those elements of western thought which fitted into the ethical and social scheme he considered desirable. Synthesis,

Caroline has laid out a beautiful spread, which is a combination of some of my favorite things that she has cooked, and traditional Sikh wedding dishes provided by Jag's friends. There is a whole roasted beef tenderloin, sliced up with beautiful brioche rolls for those who want to make sandwiches, crispy brussels sprouts, potato gratin, and tomato pudding from Gemma's journal. The savory pudding was one of the dishes from Martha's wedding, which gave me the idea for this insanity to begin with, so it seemed appropriate. I actually think Gemma would strongly approve of this whole thing. And she certainly would have appreciated the exoticism of the wonderful Indian vegetarian dishes, lentils, fried pakoras, and a spicy chickpea stew. From what I can tell, Gemma was thrilled anytime she could get introduced in a completely new cuisine, whether it was the Polish stonemason introducing her to pierogi and borsht, or the Chinese laundress bringing her tender dumplings, or the German butcher sharing his recipe for sauerbraten. She loved to experiment in the kitchen, and the Rabins encouraged her, gifting her cookbooks and letting her surprise them with new delicacies. Her favorite was 'With a Saucepan Over the Sea: Quaint and Delicious Recipes from the Kitchens of Foreign Countries,' a book of recipes from around the world that Gemma seemed to refer to frequently, enjoying most when she could alter one of the recipes to better fit the palate of the Rabins. Mrs. Rabin taught her all of the traditional Jewish dishes they needed for holiday celebrations, and was, by Gemma's account, a superlative cook in her own right. Off to the side of the buffet is a lovely dessert table, swagged with white linen and topped with a small wedding cake, surrounded by dishes of fried dough balls soaked in rosewater syrup and decorated with pistachios and rose petals, and other Indian sweets.

Upon receiving a tax-free five-hundred-thousand-dollar payout, Naomi quit her job at the vintage clothing store, decided she wasn’t a vegetarian after all, stopped worrying that her carbon footprint might lead to the destruction of the planet, and booked a series of sea cruises to exotic ports that would keep her on the move for more than two years, until she met Mr. Right on a voyage around South America.

Animals and I are best friends, and that’s why I refuse to eat meat anymore. Meat products and I are sorta like roommates who are still making due, but I’m pretty sure I need to move out and stop talking to them. Marijuana is like this really beautiful plant God put on the Earth for my enjoyment, and since it helps me not eat my best friends, the animals, I love it even more. And alcohol is just some random hookup I allow into my life now and then. Not good for my mind or my body in the long run, I know, but I don’t mind it so much.

stretches, save for the very occasional twinkling lights from a village or small town. I always imagine how hard it must have been walking on foot during the prehistoric period across this vast and desolate space. After reaching Novosibirsk we drive for five or six hours across the flat steppe of southern Siberia, through miles of wheat and sunflower fields in the summer, before the topography changes and low hills come into view. The roads become rougher and more shingly, potholes appear, and the path is occasionally washed out completely by a river. Just as the bouncing and lurching of the four-wheel drive becomes intolerable, and after some eleven hours’ travelling in total, the base camp of the Denisova team finally appears and it’s time to see old friends, settle in, unpack and relax, usually over a few shots of vodka and an amiable dinner. The first time I ate with my Russian colleagues, I had to explain to Professor Michael Shunkov, co-director of the excavations at Denisova, that I was a vegetarian. When his translator conveyed my message Michael immediately replied, in perfect Russian-English, ‘You will not survive in Siberia!’ Meat is indeed usually on the menu, but Russian hospitality means that I have never gone hungry yet.

When I went vegetarian, my friends quizzed me on what I was missing. Bacon, surely, or steak? In fact, what I noticed most of all was a sense of relief. I could take satisfaction in my food, that my hunger was not another animal's suffering.

Nina and Sophie were seated at a large round table settled under the branches of a blooming magnolia. The rich scent of the flowers mixed with the incredible food Jasmine and her team had whipped up had built an almost intoxicating aroma. They started off with sesame Halloumi and sweet potato tahini mash, followed by butternut squash and sage risotto, then there were hearty mushroom steaks with a side of roasted eggplant and miso salsa as their main. As they ate, she tasted the flavors from the earth, celebrating the gardens and passionate people around them. Her friend had harnessed the surroundings and created a rich culinary experience for the event.

Oddly enough, Axl Rose of Guns N’ Roses was a big Depeche Mode fan and he invited them to join him at a heavy metal nightclub, the Cat House. However, when he went off to a friend’s Beverly Hills barbecue and allegedly shot a pig, Depeche Mode were sufficiently shocked to issue a statement: ‘... as strict vegetarians, the band were appalled by Rose’s behaviour and do not wish to associate themselves with anyone who goes around shooting pigs for fun.

Wolf put a friendly arm around my shoulder. “Come on, B, let’s feed you. We got campfire specials tonight. Hotdogs, burgers, steaks, chicken . . . pretty much any meat you can think of, to be honest.” My stomach rumbled in gratitude, but I didn’t want to impose. “Oh, I shouldn’t stay. I’ve already taken up enough of your time—” “Nonsense, any friend of mine or Ames is family here at Fenrir. I’m gonna make you a huge plate, so I hope you’re hungry.” He paused a moment as we walked toward the fire. I actually kind of liked the feeling of his arm wrapped around my shoulder, though I knew it was a brotherly sort of touch. It was nice all the same. “You’re not . . . ,” he whispered, “vegetarian, are you?” We stopped outside the fire, catching the attention of several couples and a few ladies who eyed me with curiosity. I replied, “Oh, um . . . I’m vegan, actually.

To me, the quintessential Japanese chain is MOS Burger. My friend Rob Ketcherside, who lived in Nakano for years before returning to Seattle, is also a fan. "Visitors to Japan always make a big deal about McDonald's teriyaki burgers," said Rob, "but those are a shallow response to what MOS Burger offers." Indeed. MOS Burger serves something resembling a regular hamburger, but it is far beside the point. On one visit MOS, for example, Iris ordered a Yakiniku Rice Burger, with slices of Korean-style grilled beef between two toasted rice patties acting as a bun. My burger had a regular bun, but the patty was a crispy tonkatsu fillet topped with its usual tomatoey brown sauce. After I finished it, I was still hungry, so I ordered my own rice burger, a vegetarian one filled with kinpira gobō, shredded burdock root simmered with soy sauce, mirin, and chiles. Beat that, McDonald's. Next to the cash register at MOS, I noticed an ad for a new special menu item, only for a limited time: naan tacos. Yes, that would be Indian-style flatbread wrapped around Mexican-style fillings, presumably with a Japanese spin inside and out. I suspected the limited time offer has elapsed by now.

Dog Farts:Dogs may be man’s best friends but dog farts remain among the most rancid and foul smelling things ever to enter a human nostril. In fact the rectal stench of K9 back blasters have been plaguing human populations for tens of thousands of years. There a lot of different reasons we put up with our Fido’s stinky dog butt, but the main reason is so we can have someone to blame our own stinkoid bottom cheek claps on. Best of all, as Fido can’t speak he can’t deny it! 8. Vegetarian Humans: Ok, while not eating meat may be great for the animals, and help reduce your carbon footprint, it will turn you into a human rectal stink burger. There can be no question; all those soybeans come at a cost to your domestic air quality. As anyone who has ever had a macrobiotic hippie come to stay, vegetarians are champions when it comes to opening the basement window. 9.  Non Vegetarian Humans: Ok, well maybe it is not just the vegetarians. Meat eating humans can pretty ripe in the trouser department too.  In fact there really isn’t all that much in it, so if you are planning to chow down on a cow to keep your rump mist under control then you might be disappointed.

politicians who bring out charts and graphs tend to fail, and those who use anecdotes tend to win. Stories make sense on an emotional level, so anything that conjures fear, empathy, or pride will trump confusing statistics. It causes you to buy a security system for your house but neglect to purchase radon detectors. It makes you carry pepper spray while you clog your arteries with burritos. It installs metal detectors in schools but leaves french fries on the menu. It creates vegetarian smokers

Brandon picked up his beer and tipped it at me. “Josh is actually great at that. That’s why he always bags a bird.” He was wingmanning me for Kristen. I just hoped she found dead turkeys sexy. Kristen smiled at me. A genuine smile. “Have you hunted all your life?” “Yup.” I put the lid on the pot call and handed it back to Brandon. Kristen poked at her salad. Then she looked back up at me, her eyes innocent. “Is it true that ‘vegetarian’ is a Native American word for ‘bad hunter’?” Brandon laughed so suddenly he choked. I smiled at her, happy to see her coming back to her old self. “You know, I still don’t have a car,” Sloan said over her pasta after Brandon stopped laughing. “You two broke my Corolla.” Kristen snorted. “Really? You’re going to put this on us? The hamster probably died.” “What hamster?” Sloan looked confused. Kristen skewered a crouton. “The one running in the wheel under the hood.” Brandon and I laughed, and Sloan pressed her lips into a line, trying to look angry, but she couldn’t keep a straight face. “How can you let her drive that thing?” I shook my head at Brandon. “I told her, I don’t know how many times, that I’ll buy her a new car,” Brandon said, still chuckling. Sloan shrugged. “I don’t want a new car. That was the car I learned to drive in. I had my first kiss in that car.” Brandon gave her a mock serious look. “Well, then it definitely has to go.” Sloan smiled at him and leaned over and kissed him fleetingly on the lips. I watched my best friend look at her for a moment after she went back to her food. He really loved her. I remembered the first time he started talking about her, three years ago. We were sitting in a duck blind in South Dakota, and he went on for hours about this woman he’d been seeing. I’d never seen him so into someone. I made a mental note to talk about that during my best-man speech. “Hey, didn’t you two meet on a call?” I asked, trying to recall the story he’d told me. “At a hospital or something?” Sloan smiled sweetly at Brandon. “Yeah. I only gave him my number because he was in uniform.” I grinned. “Can’t say no to a man in uniform, huh?” I twirled my fork around my pasta. It was incredible. Some kind of venison Bolognese. Sloan was a great cook. Kristen and I really should eat here more often. “No, I can,” she said. “It’s just I figured they wouldn’t let a felon or registered sex offender into the fire department.

We met again the next day. We talked about his newfound spirituality and his contemplative practice. He had not only become a vegetarian, he meditated; and I was shocked to learn that he had become celibate! Why would anyone, unless they were priests or nuns, want to give up sexual intercourse, and abstain from getting married and forming a family? Was it self-denial or selfishness? I wondered. “Don’t you want to have kids. . .a family?” I asked. “No. Why bring more children into this world? Look around you! I don’t want to contribute to the suffering of this world; we already have enough neglected, abandoned, abused children who need us. They are my children and family as well, you know? I have a big family. My spiritual friends are my family; the seekers of truth are my family; those who are called to union with God are my family!

The latik is almost done. Get the bowl and strainer ready. And get the maja blanca out of the fridge." I followed her orders, and as my grandmother strained the browned coconut curds, or latik, from the coconut oil, I cut the coconut and corn pudding into squares. I helped my grandmother sprinkle the coconut curds on top of the cut pudding and stuck the tray back in the fridge. The texture was best when it was cold, so it'd stay there until it was time for dessert. Next, I cleaned up the vegetable peels from the ginataang gulay my aunt had simmering on the stove, while my aunt fried the vegetable lumpia she'd just finished rolling. "Lila, can you taste the stew and let me know if it needs anything?" I grabbed a clean spoon and helped myself to a large scoop. The simple yet hearty dish contained various vegetables simmered in a savory coconut milk sauce. Fried tofu replaced the usual shrimp or pork so that my friends could enjoy it, too. "Mmm, you've really nailed the vegetable broth, Tita. I think it's great. Just serve the patis and bagoong on the side and it'll be fine." Adeena and Elena were vegetarians, but they occasionally indulged in seafood, so giving them the option to add fish sauce and fermented shrimp paste instead of cooking it into the dish was nice.

Olive Garden Catering Menu (Updated for 2025) When it comes to catering for special occasions, Olive Garden has long been a favorite choice for its delicious Italian cuisine and family-style dining. Whether you’re planning a wedding, birthday, corporate event, or casual gathering, Olive Garden’s catering menu offers a variety of mouthwatering options to please every guest. Here’s an updated look at the Olive Garden catering menu for 2025, so you can plan your next event with ease. What’s New on the 2025 Olive Garden Catering Menu? Olive Garden has made some exciting updates to its catering menu for 2025. With a focus on fresh ingredients, diverse flavors, and convenience, they’ve added new dishes and enhanced classic favorites to ensure everyone leaves the table satisfied. Here are some of the standout additions: Family-Style Appetizers: Now featuring options like crispy calamari platters and stuffed mushrooms for a crowd. New Entrée Choices: Expanded options include Chicken Marsala, Shrimp Scampi, and a vegetarian-friendly Eggplant Parmigiana. Customizable Pasta Bar: Build your own pasta station with a variety of noodles, sauces, and protein add-ons, perfect for tailoring to guests’ preferences. Olive Garden Catering Menu Highlights The 2025 catering menu is designed to accommodate events of all sizes and includes: Appetizers: Start your meal with crowd-pleasers like Breadsticks with Alfredo Sauce, Spinach-Artichoke Dip, or a classic Antipasto Platter. Entrées: Chicken Alfredo Lasagna Classico Five Cheese Ziti al Forno Spaghetti with Meat Sauce Sides: Complement your main courses with options like Garlic Mashed Potatoes, Fresh Steamed Vegetables, and, of course, their signature Salad and Breadsticks. Desserts: Satisfy your sweet tooth with Tiramisu, Chocolate Lasagna, or Cannoli. Why Choose Olive Garden Catering? Olive Garden catering offers several advantages: Convenience: With delivery and setup services available, catering with Olive Garden is stress-free. Variety: Their extensive menu ensures there’s something for everyone, including vegetarians and gluten-sensitive diners. Affordability: Catering packages are reasonably priced and designed to serve groups of various sizes. How to Order Olive Garden Catering Browse the Menu: Visit their official website or contact your local Olive Garden for the latest catering options. Plan Ahead: Place your order at least 24-48 hours in advance to ensure availability. Customize Your Order: Tailor your selections to match your event’s theme or dietary preferences. Pick Up or Deliver: Choose whether you’ll pick up your order or have it delivered directly to your event. Final Thoughts Whether you’re hosting a small gathering or a large celebration, Olive Garden’s updated 2025 catering menu offers something for every occasion. With their commitment to quality, variety, and convenience, it’s no wonder Olive Garden remains a go-to choice for catering Italian cuisine. Explore the menu today and make your next event unforgettable with Olive Garden’s delicious offerings.

Two starving kids and tree-hugging vegetarians. I’m going to kill Chase.” Phoebe didn’t blame him. Despite her lack of experience in the cattle-drive department, even she could see the potential for trouble. Then a familiar figure standing beside the driver caught her attention, and she waved. Maya grinned and waved back. “It’s Maya,” Phoebe said. Zane turned and followed her gaze. “Just perfect,” he muttered as his ex-stepsister walked toward them. “You’re looking grim, Zane,” Maya said cheerfully when she joined them. “Who died?” She smiled. “Oh, I forgot. You’re just being your usual charming self.” She squeezed his arm. “You’ve missed me, I know.” Zane’s eyes narrowed. “Like foot fungus.” She laughed and turned to Phoebe. “You’re still alive. I see Zane didn’t bore you to death.” “Not even close.” Phoebe hugged her friend. Maya waved forward the bus driver, a pretty woman in her fifties. “Phoebe, this is Elaine Mitchell.” “You’re the one Maya worked for in high school?” Phoebe asked. “I am.” Maya put her arm around Phoebe’s shoulders. “And this is my BFF, Phoebe.” “Welcome to Fool’s Gold,” Elaine said with a smile. Instead of her usual suit and high heels, Maya wore jeans, a long-sleeved shirt and boots. Her blond hair was pulled back in a braid. “You look like a local,” Phoebe said. “Speaking of locals,” Maya began, a note of warning in her voice. “Oh, shit,” Zane said before she could continue. Phoebe looked toward the bus and immediately saw why Zane’s face had gone a little ashen. The two crazy old women who had cornered her at his truck in town had just gotten off the bus. Eddie and Gladys, if she remembered right. The skinny one was wearing stiff, dark blue jeans and a plaid Western shirt with pearly snaps along the front. The plump one, who still looked as if she had asked for one of everything at the cosmetic counter, was wearing jeans, too, and leather chaps with fringe along the sides. They both had cowboy hats perched atop their white curls. Besides her Zane muttered under his breath. She caught a handful of words. Something about being old, broken bones and a reference to hanging Chase from the lightning rod in the middle of a storm.

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The benefits of a diet anchored in an abundance of plants is clear to see. The healthiest and longest-lived societies are scattered across the globe, whether it be the mountain villages of Sardinia, the forests of Costa Rica or the Japanese island of Okinawa, but they have one thing in common: a diversity of plants in their diet. The Hadza people of Tanzania are among the last hunter-gatherers on Earth, and they probably consume a diet closest to that which humans have adapted to eat. They forage wild berries, honey and fibre-rich tubers, and eat lean, wild meat. This consumption of between 100g and 150g of varied fibre a day results in a beautifully diverse and robust gut microbiome.4 This could not be more different from the industrialized West. Americans, on average, eat around 15g of fibre a day – half of the recommended amount and ten times less than the Hadza – resulting in poor microbial diversity.5 The so-called Standard American Diet (with the apt acronym SAD) has replaced fibre-filled plants with refined grains (plants stripped of their fibre), processed meats, sugar-sweetened drinks and deep-fried food. We all know that the modern Western diet is not good for physical and mental health, but the reason is that it’s essentially an anti-biotic diet. Without providing the food for healthy microbes, we end up overfed yet undernourished. Add to this mix an overuse of pharmaceutical antibiotics and a lack of exposure to a variety of environmental microbes due to home-cleaning products and urban living, and no wonder the industrialized world is a desert for microbes. A diet low in plant-based fibre results in a vulnerable microbiome.6 This increases the likelihood that the defence system loses balance, resulting in chronic inflammation and, eventually, a host of physical and mental health conditions.7 If it’s clear that a variety of plant fibre is the key to a microbiome-friendly diet, how do we practically implement this? The American Gut Project is a large citizen science project in which individuals across the world volunteer to send stool samples for analysis by a team at University of California San Diego School of Medicine. In 2018, they published the results of over 10,000 participants, finding that eating thirty different plants a week was associated with increased microbiome diversity.8 This was regardless of whether you were vegetarian or vegan. Most of us in the West manage only around ten plants a week. While not a necessary requirement for good health, thirty a week is a sensible, evidence-based target. It’s important to remember that plant foods aren’t restricted to fruit and vegetables; nuts, seeds, herbs, spices, grains and legumes also count. While you can add as many layers of complexity as you wish, getting a diverse, healthy microbiome is really as simple as aiming for thirty types of plant a week.