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Articles and Information
Grandmas Don't Eat Tofu
by Tammie Ortlieb
I grew up until fourth grade in the South. Every Sunday my family and I walked the few blocks from First Southern Baptist over to Grandma's tiny little two bedroom. There, we would be joined by all six of my dad's siblings and the whole of their families. What I may have lacked in best friends at the time, I more than made up for in cousins. When everyone was present and accounted for we would all gather round the dinner table for the biggest meal you could ever know. After a quick Dear Lord we thank you for this food, it was pass the butter beans and who took all the cornbread.
Sunday supper at Grandma's house meant mashed potatoes and gravy. I remember on more than one occasion black-eyed peas with corn relish and sweet potatoes topped with melted marshmallows and a little maple syrup. There always seemed, too, to be a big plate of fried chicken smack in the middle of everything else. But heaven help the little ones who tried to take the white meat. Maybe, if we were lucky, Grandma had made a mess of her fried green tomatoes. And to wash it all down, always, always a pitcher of sweet tea. I don't remember any other drink ever being on that table. Dinner just wasn't dinner without a tall glass of ice cold sweet tea.
But I never once saw tofu. I don't remember a single platter ever piled with beer-battered fried tofu. I can't pull from memory visions of cut up veggies with sun-dried tomato, garlic and tofu dip. Nor can I recall any decadent chocolate mousse that Grandma would later confess was made simply by whipping a little soft tofu with a few melted vegan chocolate chips. Likewise, I never saw her fussing in the kitchen over trying to get tofu cubes to stay on a skewer. No, I don't really remember any tofu. But I can recollect plenty of pecan and rhubarb pie. And I sure as heck can bring up some fried pork chops and chicken fried steak.
What I learned about food from these gatherings has carried me into my adult years. The meal, I've determined, is actually an aside. More important is the presentation, the atmosphere, and the good feeling that comes from sharing time with those you love. Sure I can throw some peanut butter sandwiches at my kids and call it lunch, but how much nicer to spread a picnic blanket on the floor and serve those same sandwiches with lemonade and brownies. How much more special to let them cut chunks of fruit to add to the feast? And when it's off to their Grandma's house? What then?
Grandma doesn't eat tofu. She stocks Kraft Mac n' Cheese and Cap'n Crunch cereal. Dinner on any given night could just as easily be chicken spaghetti as it could a homemade Chef Boyardee pizza with a little added pepperoni. And most certainly at some point Granny will serve up her oft requested chicken and dumplings. But the house is always packed and the counters are always loaded with good food of some sort. Somebody pours the Coke while somebody else clears the table of jigsaw puzzles and the Sunday coupons. Then we all sit down to eat while my nephew tells every frog joke he has ever learned. The vegan pickings may be slim, but the company is great and the laughter loud.
While you may not have an argument from me that eating at home would be easier than trying to imagine what sort of vegan meal one could construct out of green bean casserole, mashed potatoes, and stuffing, I dare say dining in would be a monumentally inferior experience. Not only would my kids miss the camaraderie involved in the mixing of aunts, uncles, and cousins, they would be denied the opportunity to learn decision making and confidence building skills in a safe environment. Maybe the clueless waiter doesn't know or care if my child's veggie burger is held together with dairy, but Aunt Anne knows what she put in the pasta salad. At Grandma's house, kids can ask, can smell, can pick and choose without reproach.
Sure they can question at home, too. But can they karaoke with their cousin to Shania Twain? Can they line dance with some of the biggest behinds they've ever seen? Can they have a camp out in the living room and say they are staying up all night, but pass out by midnight? Can they sneak popsicles and pickles when they think nobody is looking or learn about the time Daddy got the tractor stuck on the back forty? I doubt it. I really doubt it.
No, at home they could go to the fridge and pull out a perfectly acceptable snack without having to ask any questions about the ingredients. They could say please pass the spaghetti with veggie crumbles not meatballs and could I have another Tofutti Cutie. What they couldn't do is watch the grown ups laugh so hard milk spits out of Uncle Tom's nose. They wouldn't see that Uncle Jack gets a little happy and red-faced after dinner and does his I've-had-a-few-too-many dance. And they most certainly would be deprived of learning that ALL the Wadley women talk too much. It's a genetic thing. No, at home they could just help themselves to another spoonful of tempeh stir fry. Thank you, and could somebody please pass the dairy free margarine?
While Grandma may not eat tofu, she knows how to whip together a pretty gosh darned good time. And, in my book anyway, that's worth its weight in red beans and lentils.
Tammie Ortlieb is a freelance writer with a Masters Degree in Developmental Psychology. Her work has appeared in VegNews, Veggie Life, Vegetarian Baby and Child Online Magazine, and Mothering.com. She resides in southwest Michigan with her omnivorous husband, three terrific teenagers- two veg, one wannabe-, and a you-tell-em-like-it-is-sister future green revolutionist fabulous fourth grader.
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