Why I Eat (Partly) Vegan: Between Compassion, Digestion, and Marital Survival

There was a time when I would bite into a rare steak without a second thought, when the aroma of roasted duck breast was enough to send me into raptures, and when the mere mention of “tofu” evoked a cruel punishment reserved for culinary heretics. But times change, and so do our plates. These days, my diet fluctuates between lazy omnivorism and reasoned veganism—an uneasy balance dictated by a mix of moral scruples, digestive concerns, and a peaceful cohabitation with my gout-stricken husband.

1. Animal Suffering: The Silent Cry of the Calf… and My Conscience

These ones seem happy! Well, I didn't have any pictures of calves

Let’s be honest: it’s easy to ignore animal suffering when it’s neatly wrapped in cellophane. The steak doesn’t moo, the sausage doesn’t squeal, and the roast chicken has long since stopped clucking. But some videos have a way of shattering that comfortable illusion.

One day, out of masochistic curiosity—and under the pretext of researching my psychological thriller Of Flesh and Tears—I watched footage from industrial slaughterhouses. Let’s just say that since then, my love for steak tartare has significantly cooled. There were calves crying—yes, crying—separated from their mothers, chickens stacked in living pyramids, and pigs whose desperate screams made it very clear they weren’t invited to a garden party.

So no, I haven’t become fully vegan. Not completely. But it seemed to me that if we must eat animals, the least we can do is allow them a decent life before turning them into stew. A sort of last meal, extended version.

2. Health: Because We All Care About Our Arteries

Theses ones seem healthy

We eat too much. Too much fat, too much sugar, too much salt, too many things our bodies struggle to process—things that, over time, transform us into bloated, dyspeptic Michelin men. Cutting down on meat isn’t just an ethical choice; it’s also a way to avoid that infamous moment when you discreetly unbutton your pants after an overly indulgent meal.

And then there was my husband’s enlightening experience. A robust man, yet afflicted by a condition straight out of the 18th century: gout. During each flare-up, he became a character from a Molière play, groaning in agony over his swollen big toe, cursing the stews of his past. Doctors recommended medication, while a vegan friend, battling high cholesterol, suggested cutting down on animal protein. Before resigning himself to lifelong treatment, my husband decided to give diet a chance. Miracle: not only did his attacks become less frequent, but his blood tests also showed a significant drop in uric acid levels.

As for me, I sleep better after a light dinner. Vegetables and whole grains have never triggered those nightmarish indigestions where you wake up sweating, wondering if that discomfort you’re feeling is a bowel obstruction or just acid reflux.

3. Variety: Because Routine is for Prisons

Vegan chocolate cream with no refined sugars, one of my greatest prides

An interesting paradox: by eliminating certain foods, you actually broaden your culinary horizons. You’d think veganism would be a restrictive diet. In reality, it forces you to be more creative. No more mechanical “chicken-and-mashed-potatoes” meals—time to experiment!

Without the convenience of falling back on a piece of meat, you start exploring uncharted territories: tofu (yes, I said it!), seitan, chickpeas, red lentils, cashews turned into creamy sauces… Who would have thought that aquafaba—the liquid from canned chickpeas, once discarded with disdain—could replace egg whites and whip up into stiff peaks? Well, not in my kitchen, anyway.

And, of course, there’s the perverse satisfaction of watching your guests’ reactions when, after they’ve raved about a dish, you smugly announce, “Oh, you liked it? Well, it was 100% plant-based.” Stupefaction, denial, existential crisis… It’s a show I never tire of. Still, I suspect my guests are slightly wary of my culinary experiments…

Conclusion: Finding My Own Balance

Let’s be clear: I’m not advocating for full-on veganism. I won’t be throwing buckets of red paint on barbecue enthusiasts or erecting a shrine in memory of the cows sacrificed at the altar of steak-frites. But I’ve found my own balance. I enjoy my meals with a little less guilt, I discover unexpected flavors, and I can look a calf in the eye without immediately needing to avoid its gaze. And most importantly, my husband no longer writhes in pain after a slow-cooked dish. That, in itself, is a victory.