New Year’s grandiose resolutions are destined to fail. The “I will lose 75 pounds this year“ is doomed from the start. After years of trying, and failing, I took a different approach. Eight years ago, I decided to become a vegetarian on New Year’s Eve (after consuming an enormous prime rib). Not a bad idea had it not been for two facts – my husband had not taken such an oath and we travel a lot. And we travel in areas where being a vegetarian ranks up there with speaking Maltese. No one’s familiar with either.
Cooking at home was fine; a plate of veggies for me and meat for the spouse. The trick was being on the road for nearly six months; two in the summer months in Denver, and over three winter months down south.
On most menus, vegetables are second class citizens, primarily served as an afterthought. Either mushy or one step from raw. Other veggies are served drowning in cheese sauces, smothered with bread crumbs and deep fried. At the end of that year, eggplant parm made me nauseous and I had gained 15 pounds, the reverse of my intentions. The next year I added fish to my diet and fared better.
And this year? I’m resolving to yell less at my husband, to turn out the lights when I leave the room and to clean up as I go when cooking. I’ll be happy for two out of three.