A mucus-pale glob, about the size of a flat ping-pong ball, is nestled on my plate. Its unappealing white wobbles, contrasting my still rainbow stir-fry. Delicious red capsicum, fresh green zucchini, and crunchy orange carrot don’t deserve this. I try probing it with my fork. It slips.
“Mum? What is this alien on my plate?” asks Layla. Her deer eyes are wide. They used to be trusting, but since tweenhood, she questions everything. Maybe tonight it was valid. She prodded the jelly with her fork. It wibble wobbled. She shepherded her flock of brown rice away from the dangerous thing.
“It is meant to taste like squid,” I remark.
Perhaps I can convince the family, and myself, that this is worthy of being eaten.
“I don’t like squid … I’m not keen on imitation squid,” Layla moans, her lips pouting like a goldfish. At least she’s started on her bouquet of vegetables. That’s my first win of the day. Maybe this wasn’t such a bad idea, if it forces her to eat her greens.
The window lets in a gorgeous orange glow, cascading around the room. My Oxfam bird earrings feel cold and smooth against my neck. The recycled bullet shells would have a nice glow in this lighting.
The shine bounces off Tim’s balding head and gold wedding ring. His kind eyes are avoiding mine. I can tell he’s not impressed with dinner. He always tries to support me. It can’t be good if silence is all he can manage.
The kids are meant to be excitedly telling the family about their day. Tim’s even bothered to turn off the telly. Instead, our two kids are busy judging me. I don’t want to talk about my day. Or look at the disgusting dinner. The scarlet capsicum is juicy and crisp. At least I didn’t screw up this part. I have thrown everyone quite a curveball.
I put my fork down on our solid wooden table. The oval table had been a kerbside pickup. I’d carefully sanded it back. My callous, dry hands took months to recover. I lacquered it to have a shine rivalling a star. Occasionally I put table mats on top, to save my workmanship. Tonight, no place mats could be seen. I could not be bothered.
The open floor plan means we can see the living room, and the silent and still television set. There’s the repurposed rug made from old clothes, sitting in front of the TV. It is mainly blue but has smatterings of all different threads. It is a nice boho chic. As a bonus it supported underprivileged people in Kenya.
Next to the telly is a picture of Tim winning a pie-eating competition at our local RSL. He hasn’t eaten a pie since. He probably would eat a pie tonight though. Our white globs make minced gristle encased in stale pastry look delicious. Tim was so proud to have a rip-off WWE belt with PIE MAN 2018 printed across it. He was mainly chuffed to have beaten our eldest, Jason.
Jason hadn’t said anything. Or even grunted yet. Jason’s slumped figure almost merged into his chair. I couldn’t see his face for his mop of hair. Maybe he wouldn’t notice how unappealing tonight’s dinner looked through his mane.
Recently our family had embarked on Plastic Free July. I had enjoyed it all, up until today. Day four. On day one, I’d arrived home with around 50 jars, all filled with peculiar pellets from the hippy wholefoods shop. You fill your own containers. Nothing wrapped in plastic. The jars were fun to shake, making a plink-plink. The tiny, dry beans, chickpeas and rice dance around. They also look chic in the pantry.
On day one I soaked chickpeas overnight before cooking them into a ripe red tomato sauce sea. The golden balls had tripled in size. I can still smell the warm cumin and paprika. Passengers of eggplant, pumpkin and zucchini sailed into my mouth, on naan bread boats. I liked the Indian chickpea curry. The vibrant yellow turmeric had hugged my belly and warmed the soul. “Pumpkin, you make a good pumpkin curry,” Tim said.
We’d had spiced lentil and mushroom rissoles. The brown rissoles sat on tangy sourdough wraps. Their textured appearance even resembled mince. The cumin and coriander paired with only the crispiest lettuce, juiciest tomatoes and crunchiest carrots. All bathing in a creamy cucumber, mint and yoghurt sauce. “Dough-lightful,” remarked Tim.
The potion at breakfast had been a shock for us all. I’d pulled out a jar. A thin jelly pancake wobbling on some brown liquid. Kom-bu-cha! A fun word to say. A fizzy drink to swallow. The jelly pancake is a fungus. I hoped the health benefits outweighed the fact I’d just swallowed mushroom juice.
“It’s okay,” said Tim. I knew that meant it wasn’t.
Karen said kombucha made her feel 25 again. I was willing to try mushroom juice to be 25 again. She’d also suggested Plastic Free July.
Tonight’s meal was no winner. Jason groans disapprovingly, he won’t even touch it with a fork. Like a koala who’s been offered kale, he scrunches his nose and grunts.
Day four had been tough. I’d dealt with one tween letting me know it was my fault her lucky socks needed to be washed. We’d found them, under the bed, smelling every minute of the week they’d silently rotted there. She’d refused to touch them, whingeing.
When I asked, “Would you like cheese with your wine?”, she looked at me like I’d suggested eating the stinky socks. I’d stretched my arm out, the whole way to the laundry with the pungent pair.
The teen needed to be woken. Three times. Sloth boy took forever to not do his mop of hair. He grunted and groaned like it was hard work making your whole family run late for the day.
I clocked in 10 minutes late. Vowed to myself I’d stay back 20 minutes to make up for it. The paperwork piled on the desk and the phones rang. I could have rung some necks. The customer complaint emails were long. The fuse of each loyal and valued member of our community was not. I trudged through the day, reminding myself I was paid to be here.
Karen in the office, 40 going on 25, had gone for a jog during our lunch break. After walking the stairs countless times to the photocopy room, her brunette bob still resembled the look she’d walked out of the hairdressers with. She smelt like lavender and rose. My hair had begun the day as a bird’s nest. It had not improved. I had sweated excessively as I’d heaved up the stairs. Once. The mushroom juice was not working.
Temptation hit. I was weak. I went out of the office for a pretend lunch walk. I couldn’t convince anyone I was going to jog, but a walk felt plausible. The café next door was too inviting,
Blueberry lime cheesecake. A crispy, nutty biscuit base. A faint coconut tangy top, with smatters of smudging blueberries. The zesty lime zinged as the silky squish melted onto my tongue. Creamy tart goodness with the pop of a juicy blueberry squirt.
Oh, those blueberries, as sweet as what my grandma used to grow, fresh from the bush. A delightful crunch as your teeth broke through the base. A surprise layer of wafer-thin dark chocolate and malt biscuits. It seeped in your mouth and slid down your tongue in pure bliss. Unfortunately, it came in a plastic container.
It could only really be paired with a chai latte. I’d forgotten my keep cup. I couldn’t do an injustice to the cheesecake. Or return to the office for another 20 minutes, as I was “walking”.
I took my frothy, warm, creamy milk to go, with my darling cheesecake of course. The liquid danced with spicy cinnamon, ginger and cardamon. My tastebuds sang an angelic chorus, on the perfection of spices. It floated down my throat and warmed my belly. Lifting my spirits to face our delightful clients, and even worse, Karen, for the remainder of the shift.
I’d arrived home in some state of madness, to try this plastic-free meat alternative.
Tim is keeping his head down; I can tell he is trying to support me over dinner. But also, trying to not eat the offender. Usually, he’d scold the kids for not eating what’s on their plate. Tonight, he was still trying to join them in a silent protest.
Squid, when cooked right is delicate and juicy. I hoped this could be, too. I’d followed the recipe to a tee. I just had to get past its ugly appearance. Don’t judge a book by its cover. Don’t judge a recipe by its picture. Come to think of it, the book left the picture out for this one. I can see why.
I try stabbing the squishy with my fork. It is caught! But it wiggles and jiggles off. Stab. It almost appears alive, trying to escape my mouth and splodging onto the plate.
I start eating the brown rice. It has a nutty, earthy flavour. I feel like a nut sitting at our table. Knowing I’ve prepared this. Let’s try again. I can do this! Come to Mumma, fake fish. Determined, I lower my head. Making fish lips, I slurp it in. Ugh. One taste is enough. Spat straight out. Wash that away. I reach for the kombucha. Actually, I think I’ll have some straight water.
“Let’s order Thai. It would go nice with the rest of this. We can pick it up with our own containers,” I suggest. Maybe they won’t ask about dinner. The kids love take-out. It’s been a while since we had ordered anything fried.
I don’t want to confess what’s on their plate. Or what I did today.
Three plates jolt forward. I slide mine into the centre to join theirs. Both kids are looking at me, smiling. Jason even flicked the mop to one side.
Tim finally looks up, “Great idea, honey, so what is it anyway?”
If looks could kill, I’d spear him down right now. Like I did my slimy imitation squid. I nearly got away with it.
“The kombucha scoby,” I confess.
Jason snorts, and milk flows from his nose.
Layla is managing to hold back a gag, her eyes watering. “That weird fungus jelly? Are you trying to poison us, Mum? Gross,” she says. I watch her hustle her remaining rice and vegetables further away from it. “What if they get contaminated? What were you thinking, Mum? Do you want us all to die?”
“I read in a book that you could eat it. I fried it, like in the recipe.”
Layla’s eyes bulge like a chihuahua, “I can’t believe I am saying this to you! Mum, don’t believe everything you read.”
Tim smiled, “I’m sure you can eat it, but do you want to?” Everyone but Jason laughs. Tim gives me a reassuring smile. “Let’s stick with chickpea falafel and lentil curries while we’re saving the planet. Maybe we just aim for meat-free Mondays?”
We all start piling the mucus-white globs into a bag, ready for our green waste bin.
I knew how the imitation squid feels. I felt a little slimy thinking about trying to feed my family kombucha scoby. I felt slimier about breaking Plastic Free July, and not saving the planet one coffee cup at a time. And lying to my family about it.
But … cheesecake and cherubic chai!
About the Author
Deborah Henley enjoys the wholefood movement, most of the time. She attempted Plastic Free July last year. Deborah didn’t try imitation squid but did enjoy eating more legumes. She is currently a stay-at-home mum with two young boys and two fluffy dogs. She is a geeky hippy based in regional NSW.
