Give Vegetarians a Break

I always wanted to write about the President’s pardoned turkey at Thanksgiving.  It would follow “the chosen one” around on Black Friday, when his family, friends and everyone he had ever known had already started their venture through the Great Digestive Tract of America.  He would gobble around aimlessly, searching for a familiar feather, until he tragically realized he would have to spend the cold Virginia winter alone.
 
The story would either be an avant garde interpretation of Waiting for Godot or make the argument that turkeys are dumbest creatures alive.  Or maybe both.


Anyhow, I shared the idea with a carnivorous classmate the other day and he gasped in horror:

“How dare you!  You’re a vegetarian,” whispering my condition as if I had a third eyeball no one ever talked about.

Oh yeah.  I’m a vege-frickin-tarian.

The holidays are the tough for those in my situation.  Not because of temptation:  the crispy turkey skin, juicy ham slices or the over salted gravy.  Nope, it’s the attitude of salivating family members and friends that induce my suffering.

Last week's Thanksgiving is a perfect example.  Behind my back there were whispers and giggles as my thirty-something brothers tried to trick me into eating a bacon-filled tater tot.  I could feel my grandmother’s eyes rolling as I politely declined her craved cranberry chicken.  The most awkward moment though was the silence prior to grace, when the table for thirty was crowded and a snarky little cousin noted the lack of variety on my plate.

I get it.  I’m a little different.  But why am I such an inconvenience to you?

To be honest, I never wanted to be this way.  I grew up in Humboldt County, where countless transplants from southern California flock to harvest blond dreadlocks, trade showers for patchouli oil and get their cult years out of the way.  The vegetarians I knew always seemed bitter from iron deficiency, not to mention judgmental.

“You mean you don’t have a vegetarian option?!” they’d bark at a fifteen-year-old version of me, as I took their concession stand order at the drag races.

If you’re so enlightened, why are you are the racetrack? I’d think to myself before wrapping their tomato and pickle sandwich in a grease-stained sheet.  I have quite a harsh history with faux hippies.

Yes, I actually became an herbivore by accident.  A few years ago the meat just slipped away from my diet and never came back.  When I recognized the trend, I also realized my innards were happier, so I reluctantly decided to stick with it.

Surprisingly, the most difficult aspect about my diet change wasn't writing the break-up letter to Mr. Tri-Tip or bidding adieu to pork.  The hardest part was taking the criticisms from friends and strangers alike.  While mentioning my decision during dinner or prior to ordering at a restaurant, despiteful looks were all I received.  No one was excited about my seemingly minuscule diet change. 

It took my farm-raised parents a while to digest the news.  But in a loving effort to be new-age and supportive, my mom bought be some vitamins and my dad stocked the freezer with veggie burgers.

But my extended family and most of my friends are still choking on the idea.  It was funny at first, but it’s been a while and sprinkling Bacon Bits on my cereal isn’t as comical as it used to be.  They might as well swallow it whole and work on some new material.

So this holiday season, do me a favor and give your local vegetarian a break.  We’re not all PETA fanatics perfumed with patchouli.  Most of us are just like you, but with healthier colons.

The Thankful Fork

Growing up, I ate every Thanksgiving dinner cold. 

It wasn't because my relatives didn't know how to properly read meat thermometers or because I was passed out from sneaking one too many of my Uncle Louie's VO and Sevens, but because of the Thankful Fork.

The Thankful Fork is a somewhat irritating family tradition that started as a pre-meal roll call, passing around a serving fork.  When each diner receives this sacred utensil, they must announce what they are grateful for at that given year.  The ritual seems harmless and actually is quite humbling, but over the years it has evolved into an emotional roller coaster ride complete with tears, laughter and sometimes rehashing of old rivalries.

How has it evolved from a peaceful practice to a celebrated circus? I'm not exactly sure, but as the family has grown in both numbers and age, the event has become more eccentric.  Currently, each person is allotted three to five minutes to share their spiel and with a guest list of nearly thirty, the entire ordeal can last over two hours.  Somewhere along the spectrum of my twenty two years, the speaker has moved from sitting in their designated chair to a makeshift stage.  And somewhere along the way a microphone was added.

During the chaos, there's music, acting and choreographed routines.  My cousin Travis always does a hip hop performance and some are too sentimental to make it through their blubbering speech.  When it's time to eat, it's as if you just sat through the final episode of Sonny and Cher.

As I got older, it dawned on me that the Thankful Fork was for thankful dorks.  With teenagehood my familial embarrassment only heightened and I was bit excited when, at eighteen, I got to spend my first Turkey Day overseas in Italy, thousands of miles from the Thankful Fork.

My host family had heard about Thanksgiving and asked me if I would like to have a small dinner at their house.  Sure, why not?  Unfortunately, I ended up having to cook, but without Frenches Deep Fried Onions and other essential ingredients, the meal a far cry from American.  Still, my host family and a few friends from school settled into the posh Milanese penthouse to celebrate gratitude.

"So what else do you do on this day?" my inquisitive host mother asked.  "You just eat?"

"Umm...well, we watch football too," I replied.  "American football."

The lull in the conversation made me feel a bit insecure about my holiday, and thus I blurted: "And we pass around a fork and share what we are thankful for."

Ten sets of eyes glared at me in disbelief.  At the time I was unaware that Italians are part of a very proud culture, and showing gratitude can be considered weak.  Anyhow, I continued to explain the Thankful Fork tradition and the crowd continued to looked at me as if I had LOSER scribbled across my forehead.

"I'll start," I said.  "I'm thankful that I know all of you wonderful people."

After an eruption of laughter, the giggles settled and the questions began.  Why would you be thankful for knowing someone?  Why would you pick that?  You barely know us!

I was shocked that being thankful was so taboo, and became a bit embarrassed.  A few others at the table offered up their thanks for the food, but my host father absolutely refused to participate.  Overall, Thankful Fork: Italian Style was a bust. 

My failed attempt at sharing culture got me down for a few homesick ridden days, but then I realized there's nothing to be ashamed about.  As cheesy and cliche as Thanksgiving may seem, it really represents something uniquely vulnerable yet extraordinary about being American.  Although there are many things wrong about our country, we have to recognize that we have a day completely dedicated to being grateful for an awesome life.  And that's pretty bad ass. 

So this Thanksgiving, I'm grateful that I have the ability to be grateful.  Pass me the Fork.

Outsourced

During last week's trip to Asia, President Obama did all but get on his hands and knees to beg for India's friendship.  As a surprise to some, India replied with a despondent "maybe."

But how could this be?  Isn't America the popular jock of World Senior High School that everyone is dying to date or at least mimic?  And isn't India the nerd who does all of our homework for practically free? 

Well, maybe India caught a glimpse of NBC's latest addition to Thursday night's lineup, Outsourced, and realized that underneath that star-studded letterman's jacket, America is just an idiot.

Outsourced tells the story of Todd Dempsy, an all-American 20-something who is transferred from Kansas City to Mumbai to manage a call center.  The center sells American novelties from Green Bay Packer cheese hats to glow in the dark condoms to mistletoe belt buckles.  With Todd's ignorance of Indian culture and a few stereotypical characters, the chaos ensues.

This past Thursday night's episode, titled "Home for Diwalidays" focused on India's most celebrated holiday, Diwali.  Todd set out to make his employees work during the festivities regardless of the important season.  The remainder of the episode was full of back and forth cultural slams, with Todd finally changing his mind and manning the phones on his own.

Samantha Urban, television reviewer for The Dallas Morning News, writes "Instead of laughing with its characters, Outsourced laughs at its characters: Todd chuckles at his Indian co-workers' names and struggles to teach them about American humor and culture, complete with an embarrassing montage that includes one Indian employee singing and dancing to the Pussycat Dolls' 2005 hit, "Don't Cha." How fresh."

Urban hits the nail on the head.  The show is continually laughing at its characters and their misunderstandings of each other's backgrounds.  The writers of Outsourced expect the audience to find humor at the same joke over and over again for 30 minutes every week.

Being a successful sitcom is difficult, but this one trick pony shouldn't have made it off the idea board.  For some reason not only has it made it past the pilot, it pushed Amy Poehler's flourishing workplace comedy, Parks and Recreation, to come in mid-season. 

But even more astonishing than NBC's support of the show is its placement.  The show comes on at 9:30 p.m., following 30 Rock and The Office, two award-winning shows with broad and dedicated fan bases.  Both shows are workplace comedies, but have a much more sophisticated undertone than the slapstick that overflows in Outsourced. 

"Outsourced feels like a mistake on the schedule, something that should air on a less competitive night. Fifteen years ago," wrote New York Press television reviewer Mark Peikert. 

Peikert touches on a deeper point.  Fifteen years ago, the show had a better chance of survival.  But that was a pre-9/11 time, when Americans were allowed to be a little more cocky, rambunctious and overly ignorant.  The jock could tape a 'Kick Me' sign to a weaker student's back and still be the coolest guy around.  However, now that we're knee deep in two wars and pretty much broke, it's a different story.  We have to watch our P's and Q's, and even our Kick Me's.

I'm interested to know if the show will be signed on for another season.  If so, hopefully it the characters and plot will evolve to become a little less ethnocentric.  And hopefully we will too. 

Staying Lucrative at Lucca

Sacramento has several restaurants that cater to the Capitol and its nearby components, but one popular lunchtime destination has expanded its repertoire to reach wider costumer base.  The destination is the Lucca, a bistro located on the corner of 16th and J Streets, and their secret formula is an old fallback: Happy Hour.

Like many business casual eateries, Lucca's layout is open and inviting.  The decor is full of rich browns with rod-iron accents, and a few eccentric art pieces to bring color to the space.  Deep maroon and electric blue glass blown light fixtures hang from the ceiling providing an intimate atmosphere even in the middle of the day.  But the ambiance is far from overdone.  Costumers can enjoy themselves without being distracted by the adornments.

I arrived on a Friday afternoon to meet with classmates and test their happy hour menu.  After being greeted by a pleasant server dressed in all black, I met with another classmate at the bar and we preceded to seat ourselves at one of the bar side tables.  As we waited for the rest of our group to arrive, the mood was calm and tranquil as soft music played throughout the space.

When the group was united, we scanned the small plates on the menu and noted the most expensive item was a five dollar burger.  All other plates ranged from one to three dollars, so instead of picking and choosing, we decided to order one of everything.

Within seven minutes the plates began to arrive one at a time.  Within fifteen minutes, our table became a jigsaw puzzle as we scrambled to make space for everything.  After much shuffling, we finally settled and began the taste tests.

My first sample was the zucchini chips: tiny deep-fried slices of zucchini.  Salty and unique, they were definitely not what I had expected and surprisingly addicting.  Not too flavorful, but a suitable snack.

Lucca's french fries were performed perfectly.  The potatoes had been fried, but just enough to form a thin crisp, and then tossed in grated Parmesan cheese.  The best part of the fries however, was the truffle dip that was served along with ketchup.  It takes a particular set of taste buds to appreciate truffles, but the sauce was concocted so elegantly that even the most picky eater would be pleased.  And costing $2.50 a serving, even the most frugal diner would be pleased.

The most tantalizing taste bud experience of the happy hour was the soft seduction of the polenta.  Polenta?  Yes.  For those who have been turned off by polenta in the past, please visit Lucca for Chef Ian McBride's perfectly crafted corn.  I promise you will never think of it the same.

As a vegetarian, I was not able to sample the meat plates, though my classmates all approved of both the burger and the beef skewers.  After I had left the restaurant, I learned that Lucca owners also run their own ranch in Redwood City, CA.  Lucky Dog Ranch provides all the grass fed, hormone-free meat offered at Lucca, its sister restaurant Roxy, and at local farmer's markets.

After the meal was finished, stacks of plates wobbled on the table and stuffed stomachs gurgled.  The bill for 11 small plates, one burger, four beers and one Margarita totaled around $45, including a tip.  Divided into four, the experience was affordable and filling.

While Lucca offers a lunch Monday through Saturday and dinner seven days a week, I highly recommend taking advantage of their happy hour.  The special runs Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday and Friday from 3 p.m. to 6 p.m., Thursday from 3 p.m. until close and Saturday from 12 p.m. until 6 p.m.  You will be satisfied and full without breaking the bank.

VOTE: It's American

You are what you eat.  It's often heard from the dusty corners of your mind while reluctantly reaching for a Krispy Kreme.  But this election season, I propose a new rendition to the old adage:

You are how you vote.
This is bad news for the Proposition 19 stoners---I mean supporters out there.  Yes, the revolutionary measure will most likely fail, not due to the morality of marijuana or the poor structure of the prop, but because we're too high to make it to the ballot box.

But this isn't just a trend for tokers.  A lot can be said about a person by looking not necessary at who they vote for, but how they do it. 

Take my 93-year-old Grandmother's retirement community for example: the day the sample ballots arrive in the mail room, a frenzy erupts.  The next few weeks are similar to cramming for finals; each initiative dissected, each candidate thoroughly scrutinized.  But for them, it's all part of the process.  It's democracy in action.

Then there are those, like my Baby Boomer parents, who know the importance of voting but are too busy with real life to follow every swing of the election.  This often ends up with last minute skimming of literature or simply following your political party's orders.

And then there's us, the college students, who shreik away from petitioners that claw for our attention.  We're the untainted power each party is grasping for, and more often than not, we're too busy with our iPhones to notice.

Perhaps the voting tendencies are generational or closely tied to each stage of life.  But what about those, like the patriotic Meg Whitman, who don't seem to make it to the ballot box ever?  According to the United States Elections Project, national voter turnout rates have hovered between 50 and 60 percent since 1960.  A large chunk of eligible Americans just don't vote.

Why?

Well, they're not all stoned. 

Many non-voters feel that their unused ballot wouldn't count in the grand scheme of things.  So, you're just one of the 231,229,580 eligible American voters.  Sitting this one out won't matter.  Others disapprove of the government altogether and chose not to participate.  I don't know how a thought process could get anymore illogical, but it happens...

Anyhow, variations of attitudes like these lead to 40 percent of U.S. citizens warming the bench as the rest battle it out on the field.  The political war is gruesome, hostile and people like Glenn Beck get followers.  Not to place all the blame on the Right; Lefties have their fair share of secret skeletons.  But when there are nearly as much benchwarmers as there are players in the game of democracy, the result falls dramatically short of what the Founding Fathers intended.

So if your voting style reflects on upon you personally, than what does lack of voting say about non-voters?

This may seem brash, but I say not voting is plain un-American.  This country was not found on capitalism nor progressive slants.  The premise of America is democracy.  A government for the people, by the people (not by a slight majority of the people).

This election year, I encourage you to be patriotic.  Go out and vote for propositions and people you believe would benefit society.  If you don't, I'm sure we could find you some space on the bench, but the game won't be the same without you.

And if you're a Prop 19 supporter, wait until after you cast your vote to celebrate.

Student Loans: Just Do It

At eighteen I made myself a promise: I would avoid student loans at all costs. 

This is a story about broken promises.

After I graduated high school, I spent a year in Milan, Italy, on a scholarship from the Rotary Exchange Program.  To describe the experience in one word: completebliss.  I became an expert in eating risotto, learned how to decipher Gothic and Roman cathedrals, and amazingly, began to appreciate techno music.

But before I could blink, the year was over and I was back at my parents' house facing reality.

Within one week of arriving in America, I enrolled full-time at the community college and got a job at a bakery decorating cakes.  My plan was simple enough: I would work thirty hours a week while taking seventeen units.  That way, I wouldn't have to go take out loans and could be completely self-supported. 

And so reality commenced.  Three days a week, I woke up and worked from five in the morning until one in the afternoon, then race to school for class.  Around 6 p.m. I would rush home and study until I crashed around midnight.  Of course quick meals and errands were scattered throughout the day, but overall, I was constantly on the go.  I took classes during winter and summer so I could transfer on time, and thus this chaos lasted for two years.

But my story is not an unfamiliar tale.  Millions of American students have to work overtime to make ends meet.  The main party concerned: the middle class.  Those of us who don't qualify for government aid and don't have handouts from mommy and daddy to rely on have to foot the bill without an ounce of help.

Of course the argument can be made that scholarships are available.  But like any prize, scholarships can't be awarded to everyone.  Besides winning the lottery or inadvertently discovering the cure for cancer, the next best option is borrowing money.

Student loans have gained a certain stigma over the past decade because of the overall increase in tuition and decrease in available jobs for graduates.  Many students, including myself, are afraid of the unknown outcome of loans.  What if I can't find a job?  What if I don't graduate?  Will I be able to pay it off?  And in fear, they resort to trying to do it on their own, like I did.

When I finished junior college, I was debt-free and had a 4.0 GPA.  Do I consider my two years a success?  Far from it.  By the end of my whirlwind of school and work, I was exhausted and uninspired.  I also didn't have any spectacular college memories to account for.  My quality of life had dwindled.

Transferring to Sac State, I was forced to go on student loans.  I wanted to continue working and struggle with finances.  However, I needed my parents to cosign my loan agreement and they did on the condition that I didn't work.  It was either school and debt, or no school at all, so I hesitantly went with the former. 

Now, halfway through my first loan funded semester, I can say it was the best scholastic decision I was ever forced to make.  I can sleep in.  I can actually read my textbooks.  I can go out on the weekends.  Not having to work has completely changed my college experience for the better.

So I broke a promise that I made at 18.  Big deal; I'm much smarter now.  I'll admit the fear still lingers in my mind that I'll be plagued by student debt eons after I'm out of school.  I'll address that problem when I get to it, if I ever do.  Right now, I am going to kick back and do what students should do best: learn.

The Break of Daum

Sarah Palin.  Oprah.  Lady Gaga.  Ellen Degeneres.  Miley Cyrus.

Collectively, American female role models are nothing short of varied.  From bra-burners to domestic dames, creationists to the college-educated, this spectrum of so-called heroines is so diverse it's often difficult for young girls to decide who and what to mimic.  Looking at the range of their predecessors, the forecast for the upcoming generation of females is a befuddled overcast. 

But there's a rising star coming from the east, shedding light throughout the greater forty-eight before settling in the sacred City of Angels.  This bright burst is writer Meghan Daum and her rationale is enlightening the conflicted females of Generation X and beyond. 

Born in 1970 and raised in the suburbs of New Jersey, Daum received her bachelor's degree from Vassar College followed by her Masters of Fine Arts degree from Columbia University.  She spent most of her twenties in New York City, finishing school and starting her career as an essayist for magazines such as Harper's and GQ.  In 1999, Daum made a dramatic move to Lincoln, Nebraska, which took her reputation and fame to the next level.

While living in the Midwest, Daum wrote the semi-autobiographical novel The Quality of Life Report, which chronicles the story of Lucinda Trout, a female journalist who moves from the chaos of New York City to the tranquil pastures of Prairie City, Nebraska.  Along with a collection of essays entitled My Misspent Youth, the novel propelled Daum to the forefront of upcoming American writers.   

After her stay in Nebraska, Daum continued her own Manifest Destiny to California where she became a weekly columnist for the Los Angeles Times in 2005.  In an interview with Sheelah Kolhatkar of the New York Observer, Daum commented on her transformation to column writing:

"I always thought newspaper writing would be very dry, but it’s quite the opposite. I’m allowed to be much smarter in the L.A. Times than I’ve been allowed to in any other publication. I think a lot of writers feel that way.”

Daum's column is a hodgepodge of current events, pop-culture, and politics all told from the female perspective.  What differentiates Daum's outlook from that of her literary contenders?  Unlike many of the voices of op-ed sections throughout the nation, Daum is balanced and refreshingly realistic, while still connecting to her middle-class, feminine roots.

In a recent piece titled "Facebook, I just can't quit you" Daum contemplates the world's addiction to Facebook and weighs out the pros and cons of leaving the social network.  She thoroughly examines the usefulness and trivial aspects of the site before reaching the conclusion that Facebook is a necessity in the new world of networking.  Whether you like it or not, you're better off having your picture property of Mark Zuckerberg.

In another article called "Christine O'Donnell's real roots" Daum debunks some assumptions about the suddenly popular right-wing senatorial candidate.  As a contemporary of O'Donnell, Daum reasons out the politician's history and points out some of her better qualities.  At the end of the column, the reader is far from convinced that the writer is conservative, but the piece paints a fair picture of O'Donnell rather than a skewed view given by many op-ed contributors.

Through her writing, Daum is able to take a step back and provide subtle evidence for big-picture reasoning.  She doesn't sway to far to either side of an issue and allows her readers to discover their own conclusions.  Perhaps not dramatically controversial, Daum is still a valuable asset to both literature and journalism.  She seeks to uncover hidden truths in a range of subjects, all relating back to the modern day woman.

At age 40, Meghan Daum is only at the dawn of her career.  Hopefully she will continue to enlighten readers for many years to come while providing a balanced perspective for a confused generation of females.

For more information on Meghan Daum and her work, visit meghandaum.com.