Hey, Did I Just Join a Cult?

When I was a kid growing up in the ’70s, my mother worried I’d join a cult. Cults were big news back then. Patty Hearst was kidnapped and brainwashed by the SLA, Jim Jones was doling out Kool-Aid at the People’s Temple, and the Moonies were camped out at every airport in the country just waiting for impressionable young neophytes like me. But those drapey orange robes were such a turnoff. I ask you, who among us can pull off an apricot toga?

But Mom was right to worry. When I was 17, Scientologists tried to recruit me off the streets of downtown Portland, Oregon. I’d been waiting for the number 57 bus to ferry me back to the burbs when a hunky young man approached me to take a “personality test.” Before you judge, please understand that I was a hormone-riddled, boy-crazy rube. I was bored and had time to kill, so why not take Hottie’s quiz? Once it became apparent I wasn’t interested in “clearing the planet,” they tossed me back on the street. Luckily, I was too shallow for L. Ron Hubbard and his extraterrestrial entourage. Honestly, It’s a miracle a serial killer didn’t snatch me up. Again, this was Oregon in the ’70s; serial killers and cults were as common as Beetles and bell bottoms.

Unfortunately, my upbringing instilled in me an exaggerated fear of being sucked into a cult, commune, or club of any kind. To this day, I breeze past anyone holding a clipboard on the street and avoid joining any group that appears too structured or organized. Jelly of the month club — as if! Book of the Month Club — Ha! Okay, so I did join Costco. My desire to buy a gallon of peanut butter and a 50-pack of hot dogs trumped my trepidation.

With all of these neuroses swirling in my head, it’s no surprise I was on high alert when my neighbor mentioned her new weight loss program. She sidled up to me at a party last summer, dropping hints like bread crumbs. I knew the signs and steeled myself for the inevitable recruitment pitch. “My husband and I have gone plant-based,” she cooed, her eyes gleaming like a freshly-baptized cult member. Oh, she was in deep.

But wait, did she say plants? Okay, so maybe she wasn’t trying to indoctrinate me into a cult, commune, or pyramid scheme. I’d heard the term “plant-based” before; I’d assumed it was an offshoot of vegetarianism or one of those trendy diets that would quickly fade like The Zone, juicing, and Atkins.

“Do you mean vegan?” I asked, curiosity getting the better of me. My neighbor proceeded to explain the subtle differences between a plant-based and vegan diet and how she and her husband had changed their lives by eating only whole foods and eliminating red meat, fish, poultry, and their by-products. Not only did she look and feel healthier, but she’d also lost some serious weight by eating this way.

I was amazed by her level of commitment. After all, we live in a community surrounded by Big Dairy, perched on the edge of the Pacific Ocean, teeming with fresh crab, clams, oysters, and fish. How does one give all that up?

Even if I could imagine life without meat, how could anyone live without milk, eggs, and cheese? Cheese is practically its own food group — the very cornerstone of our sacred food pyramid. Obviously, I’d need alcohol for this conversation. As I sipped my wine, I riddled my neighbor with questions. Is chardonnay plant-based? Do you miss red meat? Where do you get protein? How do you cook without butter and eggs? And how, for the love of God, did you give up cheese?

“Oh, I make my own,” my neighbor replied. I was baffled. She made her own cheese? From where — her elbows? My upper lip curled as my neighbor explained how one could make cheese from cashews. NO! Cheese from cashews? I had questions. How does one milk a cashew? Do cashews have little udders? No, this was simply a bridge too far. Cheese and cashews ONLY belonged together on a charcuterie board, not whipped into a wheel of brie.

Sensing she’d lost me at “cashew cheese,” my neighbor slid her last bullet into the chamber and took aim. “If you’re interested, watch the Netflix documentary The Game Changers,” she said and sauntered off toward the buffet table in search of some kale. Little did I know that exchange was about to change my life completely.

Sure, I had reservations, but my curiosity had been piqued. I trusted my neighbor and knew her to be an intelligent grounded woman, not some easy mark, susceptible to kooky fads or fringe sects. I certainly couldn’t picture her chanting in an orange toga or proselytizing on a street corner. It seemed the only thing my neighbor wanted to recruit me into was a smaller pair of jeans.

I have to admit both my husband and I had weight to lose. Following our mothers’ deaths two years prior, we’d packed on the pounds as we worked our way through grief and bags of peanut butter cups. In our late 50’s with family histories of cancer, diabetes, and heart disease, health had become a big concern. What did we have to lose by watching a little documentary? The answer was weight, a lot of it!

The Game Changers, produced by James Cameron and Arnold Schwarzenegger, features vegan athletes at the top of their game. Each case an impressive example of how plant-based eating can build muscle, improve performance and boost stamina, along with a host of other benefits. The documentary presents scientific evidence that plant-based is by far the healthiest way to eat. And the evidence connecting high blood pressure, cancer, heart disease, and diabetes to meat consumption was undeniable. My husband and I were convinced we needed to make a change. If we’d stumbled into a cult, color us indoctrinated!

It turns out my neighbor had been a busy apostle, recruiting other disciples into the “cult of clean eating.” In the coming months, I would meet dozens of other believers, both online and in my community, who’d ditched meat to embrace this healthier lifestyle. Plant-based seemed to be sweeping the Oregon coast like a giant tofu tsunami.

But before my husband and I could make this change, we needed a strategy. Watching a few documentaries was easy; implementing a lifestyle change of this magnitude would require a steadfast commitment. We’d also need the consent of our two grown sons, who were living with us during the pandemic. They had a choice; eat plants with Mom and Dad or cook their own meals. Twenty-year-olds will do almost anything to avoid manual labor, so naturally, they opted into our plan. As a family, we decided to embark on our plant-based journey for 90 days. That meant no meat or animal by-products would pass our lips for three solid months. At the end of 90 days, we would re-evaluate the plan.

Naturally, questions still loomed; Would we grow weak and listless from lack of animal protein? Was it possible to sculpt a turkey from tofu? Did I possess the skills to whip a cup of cashews into a freaky wheel of gouda? And does meatless Haggis really exist, and if so, why?

In the weeks leading up to our start date, I eased the family in slowly, trying out a few plant-based recipes each week. Both Pinterest and my neighbors proved to be a wellspring of recipe ideas and inspiration. As the weeks passed, I slowly built a catalog of family-approved recipes and cleared my pantry of highly-processed non-vegan items. I shed a tear when I threw out our butter. And when my husband finally insisted I toss our Tillamook cheddar cheese, I cradled the loaf in my arms and whispered, “No cashew will ever replace you!”

January 1st, 2021, finally arrived, and our 90-day experiment was off and running. With my growing backlog of vegan recipes, the transition from omnivore to herbivore was seamless. As the weeks passed, I became more accustomed to the idea of plant-based living. I was learning to cook differently, shop differently and even think differently about the food I put into my body.

While I hadn’t joined a cult as my mother had feared, there’d be no togas, shaved heads, or liturgical dancing; I had joined the nearly 75,300,000 vegans on the planet committed to a plant-based healthier lifestyle.

As we left the dumpster fire that was 2020 in the dust, our family felt invigorated by the hope of a brand new year filled with fresh possibilities and a firm commitment to a healthier lifestyle. I think even Mom would have approved.