My Grandmother had a friend called Brenda. A vegetarian friend. Which is fine in itself but she was pretty evil along with it.
Brenda was the kind of evil who used to make me sleep on the windowseat in the attic when her kids got beds. Or laughed at me for being so small I looked like an ant on her deckchair (just to clarify, I was about 6 years old). Or not allow me to have a drink of water before bed.
She and her family used to eat their dinner at the dining table upstairs while me and my cousin were relegated to the breakfast bar to eat dimly lit miniature vegetarian nibbles that would have left a hamster hungry.
One fine day while in her care, Brenda the Evil Vegetarian decided that we should all take a trip to the beach. She packed an evil looking vegetarian lunch and off we went. Blanket unrolled and food laid out, Brenda asked for volunteers to go get firewood. Seeing the various offerings, everyone jumped up and ran off in separate directions. Kicking up sand. Into the bowl of beetroot that Brenda had just served up for me. You remember I said that Brenda was evil?
She made me eat it all. Avec sand. To this day, I cannot look at a beetroot without tasting that familiar gritty crunch. Vom.
This one may well wind up any vegetarians reading this.
Yes, you remember them.
They’re like vegans, but without the commitment.
Keep sending in the stories and pictures,of your sad and traumatic dining experiences, the pain of others seems to have a nurturing effect on me.