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Does anyone really enjoy a meal with a virtuous eater, the kind of woman whose hand rises like a shield as the bread basket is passed to her or who beatifically shakes her head when the waiter arrives to inquire about dessert? No one would have mistaken either of us for that kind of woman. Instead, as we spent the past two years writing a book together, a lot of our best—not to mention our happiest—work was done over late-night spicy tuna rolls or sitting down to frittatas at brunch. The idea of trying to go vegan—that is, giving up all meat, fish, poultry, dairy, and eggs—for six weeks, maybe longer, wasn’t inspired by tofu Reubens or pumpkin-seed-crusted tempeh, but by cheeseburgers garnished with onion rings. They were delicious, but we both woke up in the middle of the night—not for the first time—with racing hearts. The next day we wondered: Did the problem lay in our diets?
We loved food, but we were increasingly concerned about whether the food we loved was any good for us. We’d grown paranoid about allergies, antibiotic-laced milk, and FDA reports on salmonella outbreaks. Not to mention the cruelty of factory farming and the environmental impact of our eating habits. Kara alternated between patting herself on the back for eating more fish—touted by nutritionists for its brain-building omega-3 fats—and worrying about how much methylmercury she was ingesting. Marisa’s fondness for steak frites waned every time she turned on the TV and saw yet another image of cows mooing mournfully in overcrowded feedlots.