“Don’t say anything that would embarrass me. You know.” My vegan son said.
“I would never do that, son.”
Kaden announced two years ago that he was a vegan. I accommodated this: no meat, no eggs, no dairy, nothing from an animal… not even honey. Sometimes, we prepared two meals, but we also ate together.
In his senior year of high school, he had invited his sweetheart, also a vegan, home for dinner.
“Just don’t show her the naked baby pictures and the ones with me taking a bath with bubble head and bubble beard… just be normal, okay?”
I snickered and his mother responded, “We just want you kids to have a good time.”
“Huh?” The doorbell rang and Kaden, the vegan, ran around in a circle, patted his straight emo hair, and then answered the door.
We ate Mediterranean: couscous, falafel, baba ganoush. I had learned a lot in two years.
“Everything was delicious.” The girl with the straight black hair and red tips said.
“We’re glad you enjoyed it.” My wife replied. Kaden stared back at her, ready to intercept any stray conversation.
“Have you always eaten this way?” The girl asked.
“Oh no,” I said. I could see my son’s eye between strands of hair. “Couple months before my son made the announcement, we had a barbeque at my buddy’s house. The steaks came out incredibly rare. You should have seen my vegan son. He was licking the blood off the plate.”