East of Eden

In Auckland, New Zealand (my home town), there is a great cafe called Revel. They are very much in the mode of "socially conscious business", and I once got into a conversation with the owner and manager, Jeff, about why he chooses to use fair trade and free range products.

His answer: "Once you know that a better option exists, it's hard to choose the worse option."

This rang so true for me, as my path to becoming vegetarian was very much directed by my choosing to seek out information on meat production. Initially I just took in the information and continued eating meat, justifying my choice by saying I "wasn't ready", that I would do it "when I moved out of home", that I didn't know how to cook vegetarian food. In reality, I just liked the taste of meat, and couldn't really imagine parting with it. (I also liked the fact that my mum cooked for me - yes, most nights until I was 24 - and was too damned lazy to cook my own separate meals.)

But I began to realise that I was feeling what my Stage 1 psychology paper had informed me was 'cognitive dissonance'.  My actions were at odds with my thoughts. The more I read and watched, the more I realised that I couldn't eat something when I knew that there was a "better" (read: less cruel, more ethical) choice available. Even though it was tempting to consider only the gustatory pleasure - I still miss the taste of meat immensely - I simply couldn't justify overlooking the moral aspects of meat production that I found so inhumane.

But now I am up against a new ethics-enjoyment disparity: dairy products.

The longer I've been vegetarian, the stronger I feel in my choice to become one. Every bit of new information I come across only serves to back up my decision to cut meat from my diet. But it has also brought me into contact with literature about veganism, which has taken me down the same path as my initial forays into vegetarian literature: a sense of guilt, a want to change, a feeling that my current actions are supporting something that is morally questionable.

However, unlike vegetarianism, I am writing this from the midst of my vegan transition turmoil: without the benefit of hindsight, without the strength that you find in having committed to something, and without the sureness of purpose that comes with defining oneself as a 'vegetarian' or 'vegan' (or, for that matter, anything else). I want to be vegan, and I really feel that all the evidence points in that direction, but (and I feel sick and pathetic saying it, but I can't help but know the truth) I still love cheese, and sour cream, and using butter in my baking, and meringues. The pleasure of cooking with these ingredients and the taste of these foods is so, so hard to give up, and I can't fully imagine a life without them; not yet, anyway.

I thought that moving to a new country would be a way to break free from the "well, that's the way I've always done it" mentality, but instead it allows for guilt-reducing justifications: "I don't know what the word for 'vegan' is in Dutch"/"I don't know which stores sell agar-agar/soy yoghurt/vegan cheese"/"I'm too nervous to use my still meagre language skills to ask for help"/"I don't know any other vegans".

And worst of all: what is conjured up in your head when you think of Holland? You might be forgiven for thinking first of tulips, bikes and marajuana (all quite correct). But if tourist shops are anything to go by, IT IS ALL ABOUT CHEESE. I am not kidding. There is cheese everywhere in this country. Mini cheeses. Maxi cheeses. Specialist cheese shops. Cheeses that are names after entire towns (thanks Gouda and Edam). And I love cheese. I love it. I love that it goes with so many meals, and that it comes in so many types, and that it tastes so delicious on a slice of fresh bread...and halloumi. Oh halloumi. Oh...just...let's not even go there.

And so, here I am, struggling again with cognitive dissonance, with hedonism vs. morality, and with whether I really want to admit this to Teh Internets in a way that allows for critique and criticism. But I figure that other people must be fighting the same internal battles as me, and it doesn't hurt to share.