Like “jumbo shrimp,” “proud New Jerseyan” or “Democratic-party moderate,” “vegan dining” is an obvious oxymoron. The vegan part of the dish is the garbage that’s left after you throw out the real food. You might as well be eating the wrapper your sandwich came in. When it comes to bean-sprout sundaes or celery burgers, put me down for a hearty “no thanks.”
You eat what you want, though. Just don’t tell me what I can have. Is that so hard? Yet New York City public school students are being forced to go vegan on Fridays, thanks to our vegan mayor, Eric Adams.
Adams’s gag-inducing new policy of swapping out food for colon-blow roughage and mashed yeast is a declaration of food war. As if we didn’t have enough wars going on— the woke wars, the COVID wars, the language wars and the info wars and the streaming wars. The hell with peas, give peace a chance.
It’s also a religious war: Eric (like Bill Clinton, another member of the militant vegan brigades) used to be fat, got thin, and is now an evangelist for the cause. Good for you, Eric! But don’t force your cauliflower patties and cheese-less tacos on the kids. It’s been a horrible two years for them: haven’t they suffered enough?
Or is this just a back door way of ensuring they don’t take their masks off even at lunch, because no one wants to eat yam stew?
Eric’s new crusade is giving me some grim flashbacks to my youth. In a mostly-Catholic town in Massachusetts, we were subjected to meatless Fridays in schools for 12 years because God. Non-believers, Jews, and even anyone who went to church every Sunday of his life but didn’t think Jesus actually cared if you had spaghetti and meatballs was forced to go along with this lunch-lady theocracy. Church and state, Mapleshade Elementary! You’re lucky I didn’t know about the Supreme Court when I was wearing a Mork and Mindy T-shirt.
Mostly those hideous Fridays meant an offer of cheese pizza, which was boring and tasteless. But at least it had cheese! Vegan pizza, otherwise known as “toast,” sounds like a euphemism for the child-hating bread-based lunch at a Victorian orphanage. If the kids across this city start busting out spontaneous song-and-dance numbers about child starvation, don’t say nobody warned you. Delete the B from the kids’ BLT and there’s no telling how many Sixties show tunes you might be subjected to.
More to the point, it’s becoming an increasingly disturbing characteristic of the prog army that any derivation of “live and let live” must die. Lefties won’t even go along with “eat and let eat.” Dining options are closely tied to faith and self-definition, and this country is kind of famous for allowing people to define themselves. Even if you define yourself as a joy-rejecting, bark-munching, grass-snarfing, Holy Church of Joaquin Phoenix cheesophobic freak. This is supposed to be the country where you do your own religion, and I pray for bacon-double-cheeseburger.
So does every kid, of course; who among our youngest New Yorkers is clamoring for a lunch of pinto-bean mash with a side of rutabaga jelly? Kids — because they need protein, because they’re growing — are more carnivorous than wolverines, and twice as mean when they’re hungry.
You’re lucky if you can get your little one to eat a couple of carrot sticks with their chicken nuggets and lard-fried potatoes. New York City’s schoolchildren are going to throw away their booger-casserole-looking Eric special, then report directly to the nearest McDonald’s at 3:45.