This dalliance of ours has come to an end. I wish I could say it was me, but really, tofu, it’s you. Your gelatin-like texture, your bland boiled taste, your unappetizing color. And we’ve both tried. I know you tried to hide underneath layers of sauce, trying to camouflage yourself, and you know I tried to scramble, bake, fry, boil and steam you. But it wasn’t meant to be.
Yes, we had our hey-day, back in my vegetarian days, when I embraced you fully. We tried to convince the members of my family that you were tasty, baked and dipped in a thai peanut sauce, hidden in soups and swirled into smoothies. But somehow they didn’t take to you. They outed you amid the strawberry and banana in the fruit smoothie, they picked at you in the stir fry. And no matter how much we tried, they always preferred the chicken or fish to your little white self.
You know I’m a fan of your relatives, the crunchy tempeh, the silky soymilk and the wonderful miso. We continue to get along well and they’re part of my life.
But ever since you appeared in my college cafeteria day after day, over-sauced and dripping in oil, our relationship began to sour. I turned back to eating meat after I could no longer stand eating you and only you. I attempted to including you in my meals, but you usually went bad in the back of the fridge before I could add you to a recipe. No matter how much we tried, it wasn’t working out.
You know we’ll remain acquaintances. I’ll say hello to you in Japanese restaurants when you’re swimming in the salty broth of miso soup. You’ll peek out from underneath curry sauces in Thai dishes. But we can no longer see each other regularly. I can’t do it anymore.
Take care, tofu, and I guess I’ll see you around.