Growing up, I was what my parents called an adventurous eater. Although that can mean many different things depending on how you define adventurous, all you need to know is that by the time I was 8, while the majority of my classmates and friends swore by the kids menu, my wish was to go out for sushi.
I feel fortunate to have grown up with parents who cooked and helped me form a healthy relationship with food. For all the foods I grew up trying and loving, I’ve always had a short list of major food dislikes: Fig Newtons (it’s a long story), candy corn and red meat.
My reason for not eating red meat isn’t cultural or religious, and it’s not exactly a mark of activism. Rather, I’ve simply never really enjoyed the taste of steaks or burgers. Plus, my mom (who is now a fully plant-based vegan) eliminated red meat from her diet before I was born for the health benefits of eating less meat, so I thought I could easily stop eating it too.
Now, I’ve found myself stuck somewhere in the middle as I navigate social circles where people of all food sects are represented. The closest people in my life are either proud carnivores or die-hard vegans or vegetarians, while the best label I can come up with for myself is a flexitarian. I am now used to explaining to friends (for the millionth time) that I’m not strictly vegetarian, vegan or pescatarian. Even though I eat chicken and turkey burgers and seafood, I also enjoy tofu, tempeh and other plant-based cuisines.
My own experiences with food, coupled with the perceptions of my friends and significant others, have made me realize the challenges we encounter when food intertwines with our social lives — which is all the time, since sharing meals with others is an inherently social activity.
Think about it: In literature and film, when characters share meals together, the scenes rarely have anything to do with what’s on their plates; the dinner table represents a place for conversation. There seems to be an unwritten rule that going on a date typically revolves around food — whether it’s a bowl of movie theater popcorn, melty ice cream cone or special dinner. For many students, our first time laughing with new friends or acquaintances happened over starchy dining hall cuisine.
Thus, food has the power to bring people together — but different diets can be a reason for conflict in friendships and relationships, especially since our choices about what we eat (and what we don’t eat) can say so much more than what we simply like or dislike.
In this era of wellness and social consciousness, when it comes to food, there’s pressure to consider issues like sustainability, climate change, animal rights and human health, so by committing to a label like veganism, someone is positioning themselves with a vegan lifestyle and the social values that come with it.
This makes me wonder if citing taste as the main reason to consume or forgo a food group, like red meat, is even politically correct at this point. Plus, by not committing to a clear label like pescetarianism or veganism, I almost feel left out of having a concrete food community to lean on — which reinforces the interesting social implications of our eating habits.
Although I don’t have the answers to this ever-evolving food conundrum, the truth is that even with research about the impacts of the meat industry on the environment and health benefits of incorporating more plant-based cooking into one’s diet, many people are not willing to give up their favorite foods, no matter the cause. Some people may even avoid going out to eat with, or being in relationships with, people who are “high maintenance” or “complicated” in their eating habits.
We may never align with the eating philosophies of people in our social circles, but in order to be the best friends, partners, roommates, coworkers and classmates we can be, we should remember that a love for food, at its core, can be something that unites us — if we let it.
Darcy Schild is a UF journalism senior. Her column normally appears on Wednesdays.
