Don't Have a Cow; Have a Pretzel Instead

It’s not a good sign if you’re in a room of 300 people, and the only person awake is the guy on the podium delivering the presentation.

Wedged like a canned sardine between a heavyweight Texan and a woman with a noisy stomach, mom tried all she could to stay awake and appear mildly interested as bar graphs and flow charts flitted on giant screens around the banquet hall, and the presenter droned onstage about revenue and product strategy.

The granola she had eaten for breakfast had long been digested and mom idly wondered what her slim pickings for lunch would be in steak country.

In Omaha for a three-day conference, the vegetarian choices around her were as dull as the cloudy weather and as drab as the gray landscape outside. The people around her seemed to be built like the cows they consumed, and mom stuck out like a sore thumb trying to find something green to graze on during meals.

Her first night at a steakhouse, she looked at the hearty portions on the table and almost fainted face-down in the gobs of butter served scooped like vanilla ice cream.

Feeling like an orthodox Brahmin in a mosque, mom pulled the waitress aside and apologetically asked if there was anything remotely vegetarian at the restaurant other than onion rings and twice-baked potatoes. The woman helpfully pointed to the seafood section. Mom explained her dietary restrictions and resignedly waited for a bowl of steamed carrots and peas while her dinner companions tucked into half a cow each.

When her special order did arrive, she was pleasantly surprised to find the steakhouse chef a lot more imaginative than the kitchen staff at her local Olive Garden - an establishment that has not changed its vegetarian offerings since 1985.

The next day, mom was delighted to find aloo-gobhi and rice on her plate, while the other conference attendees chewed on T-bones and mashed potatoes. The Gujarati lady at her table complained, “What is this strange rice? Must be South Indian, hmmph!” but after subsisting on continental food for three meals, mom would have happily consumed even the kohlrabi kootu and karela curry she wouldn’t normally touch with a barge pole.

The first day away from home, sitting at a swanky restaurant surrounded by a corporate crowd, mom was asked if she was missing her children. Searching deep in her heart, mom realized that she wasn’t even thinking about her children. Given the time difference, she calculated dad would be driving home with the kids and dealing with a cranky Kuki in the throes of a “gimme candy”-induced rage.

The same question the next day had a similar reaction. Mom dutifully called home at night, but truth be told, she was savoring the unusual quietude and watching Roseanne and Friends reruns in her hotel room until late night.

The third morning, however, mom awoke to a gentle tug at her heart strings. Her room was a little too quiet and orderly. There was no dog hair floating around, the beds were creaseless, the place didn’t smell of stale sambar and she could walk around the room stark naked without any pressure to suck her stomach in.

As she sat in the airport later in the day and watched a pair of children shrieking and running around while their mother calmly nursed a third child, the gentle tug in her heart grew to a violent jerk and she felt a familiar longing. “What if we had another baby?” she mused, making a mental note to broach the subject with dad.

Five hours later, mom was enveloped in sticky bear hugs at the airport curb. “We missed you,” cried Kuki, refusing to get back in her car seat. The children prattled nineteen to the dozen and fought over the single pretzel packet mom had received on board.

As she strapped herself into the car, mom glanced at dad, who had played single parent the last three days. With an eye on traffic, he watched the children bicker over the pretzels in the rear view mirror and let out a deep sigh.

Now was not a good time to talk about filling that empty middle spot in the back seat of the car, concluded mom.