When I was eleven years old I decided to become a vegetarian. My parents said that it was okay if I could actually carry out a vegetarian lifestyle for two weeks straight. I promptly agreed and began to consume only things grown in the ground. On the third day, they took me out to Moxie's Family Grill (back when it was a casual family place) where they tempted me with my favorite food in the world- a clubhouse sandwich. With those layers of turkey, bacon, lettuce and tomato staring me in the face, my vegetarian-ism crumbled and I indulged in all of the double-decker delight.

A year later I tried again, and this time it took. I ate no meat, fish, or poultry for ten years and prided myself on my healthy lifestyle and ability to turn down fleshy, grease-laden treats like hamburgers and steaks. I worked hard to find great vegetarian meals and recipes, ventured into the world of cooking with tofu, and would often create gourmet delights in an attempt to trick my friends into thinking they were eating "real" meatballs, or chili, or pepperoni, etc.

But I have a confession to make, Readers. Feb has always felt passionately about my vegetarianism. I don't know if it was because his last girlfriend was a vege too, and he doesn't like the reminder of her, or whether he truly is just concerned about my health, but Feb is actively disapproving of my lifestyle choice and has always tried to encourage me to "branch out".

And Readers, after a year of well-meaning, concerned conversations, I finally told Feb that for his sake, I'd try to start eating a bit of chicken. Chicken has long been the only "meat" that is actually appetizing to me when I smell it, and I thought that perhaps it would be something palatable that would appease Feb's desire to see me eat meat. Plus, we were pretty confident that we were going to be living together relatively soon, and I was happily embracing the idea of cooking for him. I have no idea how to cook any meat whatsoever, and thought that this little foray into omnivorism would be a valuable learning experience.

So I tried it. And after the first tentative few bites, I loved it.

Now, Readers, I simply cannot get enough chicken. And I feel terribly guilty because, aside from my two closest friends, no one knows that I am eating any poultry. Why, you ask, would I keep it a secret? Because for as long as I've been a vegetarian, I have been mocked and singled out by my friends for it. I am known as LM, the vegetarian. It is almost a source of pride, and should people discover that I am straying from my self-prescribed path, it is as if I would lose a part of my character in their eyes. Plus, they are always offering to pay me enormous amounts of money to consume meat, and one of these days I plan on making a profit on just such an offer . . . with chicken!

So, here I am, sitting in my room, furtively scarfing down a piece of grilled chicken, smacking my lips and loving it! When we go out to eat, all I want to do is order the chicken salads on the menu. But I can't. I'm bound by my own sense of pride and status. So I will continue to enjoy chicken to its fullest degree in the confines of my home until one day, the time is right. And then they will know. . . then they will all know.


Breakfast: cup of yogurt
Lunch: grilled chicken salad
Snack: sauteed mushrooms and red peppers with grated mozza cheese
Dinner: handful of almonds, salad with viniagrette dressing, grilled chicken breast
Dessert: low-fat frozen yogurt (mango! mmm.)