I was 18 years old when I stopped eating meat. It was a traumatic affair, involving a bite into some deceptively cooked chicken. One bite of the stuff and I was completely turned off. When I came home after my first semester, I adamantly sat down to dinner with my family. “I’m going to cook some eggs. I don’t eat meat anymore,” I said. My mom looked at me quizzically, “Not even chicken?” she asked, handing me a dish of chicken parmesan.
It reminded me of My Big Fat Greek Wedding