Thoughts About Soy Milk.
No, I didn't run out of topics to discuss. I also promise I don't do drugs.
There is something profoundly meditative about having breakfast at a coffee shop instead of making your own.
Maybe it’s the action of being catered to by a barista with magical, foam taming skills, maybe it’s the sugar rush provided by the fluffy pastries behind the glass shield, but whenever I rebel and interrupt my ordinary morning routine to partake in this indulgent activity, I enter a state of deep contemplation.
Possibly, the trigger behind my 30-minute long ascension is the fact that I can freely partake into the bourgeois pursuit without the impending duty of having to wash the set of tools employed in the preparation of said breakfast.
Perhaps, the switch inducing the disconnection is the atmosphere at large, the foreign, weirdly decorated location, the bustling morning energy all around me. As well as the myriad of strangers rushing to finish their espressos or the coffee shop attendants scrapping to get everybody what they want in a timely manner.
In my head, in that moment, I am the main character of a bad rom-com.
For some weird reason, though, during that short short time lapse I become so hyper-focused on what is in front of me that anybody watching me from a distance would think I popped an Adderall just minutes before putting in my order.The relationship between me and my cup solidifies.
All of a sudden, the loud traffic disappears. My surroundings blur out and there is nothing that can distract me from this deep state of contemplation.
It is exactly during this time, prior to writing this, that I realized soy milk - or any replacement milk at that - sucks.
As somebody who has been through almost every nutrition regime that doesn’t completely strip you of your ability to coexist in society, I have had my share of trial and error with replacement food items.
From soy milk, to rice drinks, OATLY barista’s choice chai lattes passing through blobby bean concoctions in the form of a burger patty and fried Chick’n nuggets made of cardboard, I have experimented with it all.
Without following any particularly ethical reasoning, in 2016 I decided to go vegan cold turkey.
From one day to another I said to myself: “Naomi, say goodbye to anything that derives from animals”.
Now, you may understand that given my passion for food and the nationalism running through my veins - instead of being perceived as a commendable decision worthy of appraisal - the resolution raised suspicion amongst my friends.
The sacrifice reeked harakiri vibes. Self-sabotage mixed with masochism topped by a sprinkle of Karmic redemption. If it wasn’t for the animals themselves nor to fight climate change, what was I doing it for? It made no sense.
The more people were asking me about this extreme jump from a life filled with juicy pork chops, and mouth-watering sushi rolls into a future made of leaves and hand-picked grains, the more I realized I had no explanation. It was a totally illogical deliberation born from the need to try something different. (Looking back, I think I did it because I thought it would keep me in better shape.)
My strict vegan period lasted two years and it coincided with my Dubai era. In the desert, sustaining this lifestyle was fairly simple as Middle Eastern cuisine offers a vast variety of plant based choices. Rice is the star of the kitchen while chickpeas serve as the supporting act. What was less easy was picking restaurants with friends, but that’s a story for another time.
My avocado toast fueled existence was tragically corrupted the day I stepped foot back into Italy. I remember it vividly, in slow motion before my eyes.
It was early February, a cold, rainy day outside. I was starting to get settled back in at my parents’ house in the intermitting time between moving and the next chapter of my life. My little dog Gucci - a senior tea cup chihuahua - was frantically scampering around the kitchen. It was lunch time. My mom, as always, was preparing a meal for me and my father.
Salad, an unfaltering staple on our table, fresh bread, cold cults and steamed cauliflower with a drizzle of Sicilian olive oil were already sitting on the table, waiting to be devoured.
Without warning, my mother emerged from the kitchen with a plump, wobbly burrata to complete the array. With a devilish smirk, she looked at me - in that moment, she had transformed into the most brutal enemy of my diet - and said: “Want some?”.
The burrata sat on the white plate, like the muse of a Renaissance painter, luring the viewer in with her supple body. Without touching it, you could tell its skin was soft, the insides juicy and delicious.
When my mom stroked the center to divide the delicacy into portions, its rich, creamy interior started pouring out like the lava of a dormant vulcano.
Suddenly, I was reminded of the mind boggling taste of burrata, with its velvety texture caressing your tongue and cheeks and the sense-tickling flavor it releases once you bite into it. I caved in.
I drizzled a little oil on this nefarious temptation, asked God for redemption and indulged into the feast that expelled me from Veganism back into a life of sin.
It wasn’t long before I started re-introducing eggs, then it was the turn of fish.
Most recently, I interrupted a six year no meat streak when my lovely grandma prepared a batch of tortellini just for me.
Extreme guilt pervaded me, but the meal was damn good.
I don’t think I’ll ever go back to eating meat on the regular, but the flexibility offered by an omnivorous diet is kind of freeing. A sensation I have yet to come to terms with.
Anyways, during my latest coffee induced dissociation episode, sitting in front of my barely foaming soy milk cappuccino, I realized how disgusting most replacement milk actually is. Where is the bubbly goodness? The fluffy consistency of the creamy top layer?
Watery and diluted, the liquid sitting in my cup tasted more like dirty water than a carefully prepared coffee combination.
Its froth was not frothy at all, rather it emitted crunchy sounds and immediately dissolved as I attempted to mix my drink to release its flavorful characteristics.
The texture resembled that of polluted sea foam. I took a moment to ask myself how had I been able to endure with this molten torture for such a long time, but the dilemma sprung an even deeper existential question: why do we look for replacements of things we decide to give up? Isn’t the act of giving up the whole point of sacrificing the real thing?