My Journey Towards Mexitarianism

I want to be a vegetarian. I really do. But I’ve had to give up.

Let me explain.

Me and my family are Mexicans via South Texas via Northern Mexico, which for those of you not in the know, means that beef is basically a way of life. Seriously, Texas and Northern Mexico have a history of economic ties to raising meat. Which is to say that meat makes up a significant part of the diet, but more importantly, the culture of my family.

My first dabble with vegetarianism came when I was living in Hipsterlandia, aka Austin, and I was having nasty acne problems. I was willing to try anything at that point so I gave up carne in hopes that my face would cease to look like that of an adolescent boy. It may have worked a little bit, but ultimately I became a vegetarian because I liked how I felt without eating meat.

Then I moved to San Antonio.

For those of you who’ve never journeyed to the Alamo City, let me tell you that it’s not the best place one should try to be a vegetarian. Not only because there are few exclusively vegetarian or healthy eating options, but also because even the “vegetarian” dishes like beans and rice are cooked with animal fat half the time. Or the cheese enchiladas come doused in a meat sauce. Or the cheese quesadillas also come with chicken, randomly. You get the idea.

So after a while I gave up. Then I went back. And gave up again. You get the picture. Ultimately what undid me every time was that, as someone with a meat-centric family, it got really hard trying to explain why I didn’t eat the stuff. Recently, my Guelita looked at my plate and asked me, “¿No te gustó la carne m’ija?” with those sad, semi-insulted eyes after having worked for several hours to lovingly prepare us dinner, I had to give up. I got up from the table, served myself some meat, ate it, and complimented her on her cooking.

I’ve found it darn near impossible to be a Mexican vegetarian, even though I no longer particularly care for meat. It literally feels like a brick in my stomach. Yet, at the risk of hurting those that I love or completely rejecting my meat-centric culture, I’ve decided that I’ll have to bite the bullet (or taco) when appropriate. I can abstain on my own time.

It’s not really a huge sacrifice, after all, I’m not going to have to scarf down five barbacoa tacos or eat three bowls of menudo every week to provide my Guelita with the satisfaction of knowing that she helped sustain me that day. Eating meat when I’m with my family is just one way I can let them know that I love them and haven’t totally abandoned our cultural cuisine.

It’s called being a flexatarian, I guess, or in my particular case, Mexitarian.