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It is a question I’ve had to answer again and again.  If it doesn’t come up the first time meeting me (what tipped you off — the obviously thrift store jeans or the decrepit Earth shoes?) I know it still dwells in my new friend’s/coworker’s/grocery store checker’s mind. Maybe they open my fridge for another beer and encounter a meat drawer full of cheese. Perhaps they suspiciously eye my container of leftover tofu pad Thai.  Whatever sparks it, I always know it’s lurking below the surface like Jaws, if Jaws ate black beans instead of people.  “Are you a vegetarian?”

The answer, strictly speaking, is no. The answer, compared to most Americans, is basically, yes. I first heard the term flexitarian a few years back, and I actually suppressed a gag reflex.  Sorry ES, I know they once received a nomination for eater of the year, but I am not ready to unite my eating habits with the soy hemp pomegranate latte crowd. At a recent foodie gala thing, I overheard someone say, “I don’t know what I’m going to eat when I go home because this is my first Thanksgiving as a pescatarian.”  Cue aforementioned gag reflex, and accompanying eye roll.  I mean, come on, you could practically cut the sanctimony with a fillet knife.  Blech.

So, my answer, like most real ones, is, it’s complicated.  I like happy meat from happy cows and you likely won’t find any animal parts in my fridge unless my husband has a hankering for sausage on his homemade deep dish pizza.  One coworker dubbed all of my leftovers “nut-berry casserole.” But…I believe in hospitality, both giving and receiving, so I will eat (and enjoy) any lovingly prepared food, animal or otherwise.  Don’t knock the West Virginia pickled hot dog ‘til you’ve tried it.  And if the only place to watch the Illini game is Buffalo Wild Wings, bring on the hot and spicy wing platter.

I don’t think telling you how great vegetarianism is will convert you any more than telling you how often I go to church is going to make you a Christian.  But St. Camillus does have a fabulous 10:30 mass if you ever care to join me, and if you come for lunch afterward, I dare you to leave any nut-berry casserole, I mean Gado Gado, on your plate.

Gado Gado (A dish so nice they named it twice)

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The Return of Miss K…and the Great Stuffed Pumpkin


Last fall, I wrote a few posts for this website, heading down a path I was sure would lead to fame and fortune as a food writer. It wouldn’t be long before Gail Simmons was calling me to do a story and Rachael Ray was looking to me for advice on new ways to serve chickpeas. But then I hit a literal bump in the road in my relationship with food — pregnancy. I spent the first three months “uneating” my dinner every night at ten only to wake up ravenous at 3 am. Why exactly is it called morning sickness? Then, I took a job as a camp counselor for 3- and 4-year-olds, which left me with exactly enough energy each afternoon to go home and go to bed, sometimes at 7 pm. Eating became rote, done primarily to keep my stomach from devouring itself before I could make it downstairs for breakfast.

My darling boy arrived in September at a robust 8 lbs, 6oz.. I guess someone was getting enough to eat. Now that the haze of the first few months has lifted, I am back to some of my old hobbies, namely cooking and writing. Plus, we finally polished off the last casserole in the freezer. For my return, I have a recipe that represents my life — the same as a year ago, but really not the same at all. Here’s an updated take on last year’s baked stuffed pumpkin:

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