My mother still announces “She can’t eat this” before serving each dish at family dinners, like she’s reading side effects on a medicine bottle. More than a decade into being vegetarian, and every meal still comes with commentary. If you’re the only plant-based eater in your family, these situations will feel painfully familiar.
1. The separate pot situation
Every family dinner now involves at least two versions of everything. Regular curry, vegetarian curry. Regular fried rice, my fried rice.
The logistics alone are impressive. My 65-year-old mother navigates between two sets of cookware while muttering about how her life used to be simpler. The efficiency is admirable, the guilt trips less so.
2. The protein police emerge
“Where do you get your protein?” has become my family’s favorite conversation starter. More popular than discussing the weather or complaining about traffic. Last month, my uncle sent me an article about protein deficiency at 11 PM—just the link, no message. The article was from 2003.
My teenage cousin once informed me that his gym trainer said vegetarians can’t build muscle. This was particularly amusing considering my entire athletic career was built on a plant-based diet. But sure, let’s discuss my apparently imminent muscle wastage over dinner.
3. The “just pick it out” negotiations
Ask any vegetarian about their least favorite phrase, and “just pick it out” will rank high. My aunt delivers this while gesturing at vegetables that have been thoroughly acquainted with dried shrimp. The negotiations get increasingly creative as the meal progresses.
Can I just eat the outside of the spring roll? What if we rinse the vegetables? My grandmother’s solution is to confidently announce “This one has no meat!” about dishes that definitely contain fish sauce. Her certainty is so absolute that sometimes I just nod and eat the plain rice.
4. Your health becomes community property
Sneeze once at a family gathering and prepare for medical diagnoses from everyone present. “Not enough iron,” they’ll say. “Vitamin B deficiency,” they’ll insist. Meanwhile, Uncle Raymond is on his third beer and second pack of cigarettes for the day, but apparently that’s fine.
The funniest part is when they tell you about their friend’s daughter who “tried vegetarian” and apparently immediately contracted scurvy. The timeline is always vague, the friend is never named, but the warnings are delivered with absolute certainty.
5. The wedding banquet panic
Chinese wedding dinners are exhausting when you’re vegetarian. Ten courses, and you can eat approximately one and a half of them. The vegetables come swimming in oyster sauce, the “plain” fried rice has invisible ham cubes, and even the peanuts somehow involve anchovies.
I’ve perfected the art of strategic eating—load up on the bread rolls, push food around to look participatory, discreetly pass the abalone to whoever’s sitting next to me. My relatives have started using me as their seafood doubling service. They know to sit next to me for extra prawns.
6. The “I made this especially for you” dilemma
Nothing tests your poker face quite like this situation. Your aunt spent three hours making what she believes is vegetarian noodles. She presents it proudly, everyone’s watching, and you take one bite and taste the dried shrimp immediately.
Do you eat it and say nothing? Mention it gently? Develop sudden stomach problems? I’ve learned to navigate this by expressing genuine gratitude and offering to share my favorite vegetarian recipes. Though my aunt still insists that fish sauce “doesn’t count” because “fish is practically a vegetable.”
7. The comparison to that other relative
“Your cousin Timothy also tried vegetarian, but he still eats fish.” There’s always someone who did it “better” or someone who did it “worse” or someone who wisely gave up. These stories serve as either warnings or suggestions for improvement.
The underlying message is clear: there’s still time to change your mind. My personal favorite was when my mother told me about her colleague’s son who’s “vegetarian but still eats pork bone soup because soup doesn’t count.” The mental gymnastics involved in that logic still fascinate me.
8. The secret ingredient revelations
Ten years in, you’re still discovering hidden meat in everything. That amazing chili paste my grandmother makes? Loaded with dried shrimp. The lotus root soup I’d been drinking for decades? Pork bone base.
Each discovery is met with genuine surprise from my family. “We never think of dried shrimp as meat!” they’ll say. These ingredients are so fundamental to how my family cooks that they’re invisible to them, like asking someone to list air as an ingredient in their recipe.
9. The travel food savior role
Family trips require a whole new level of preparation. I’m the designated researcher of vegetarian options for every destination. Last year in Taiwan, I survived on 7-Eleven rice triangles and breadsticks while my family feasted at night markets.
My mother now packs trail mix in her purse “just in case.” She’ll pull it out at the most random moments—in the middle of a temple tour, during a harbor cruise, at a night market surrounded by food stalls. “You hungry?” she’ll ask, shaking the bag of nuts and raisins like it’s medicine I need to take. The gesture is sweet, even if I’ve already eaten.
10. The future grandchildren concerns
“When you have children, you won’t make them vegetarian right?” This question surfaces at every major holiday without fail. The concern behind it is real and comes with surprisingly detailed contingency plans.
My mother has already planned how she’ll sneak meat to my hypothetical children. “Can’t deprive them,” she says, as if I’m planning to raise them on air and sunshine. My father has bookmarked articles about childhood nutrition, ready for the day I announce a pregnancy. The discussions about my unborn children’s protein intake are more thorough than most business proposals.
Final thoughts
Here’s the thing nobody tells you about being the only vegetarian in your Asian family—it gets easier, but it never gets simple. My mother still occasionally waves barbecued pork in front of my face, asking if I miss it. My relatives still forget and add oyster sauce to everything.
But my mother also texted me last week about a new vegetarian restaurant, asking if I’d tried it yet. My father has started ordering extra bread when we go for dim sum, just for me. These small gestures mean more than they probably realize.
The negotiations continue, and we’re all trying in our own imperfect ways. My grandmother still announces “This has no meat!” about clearly non-vegetarian dishes, and I still pretend to believe her sometimes. We’re making space for each other at the table, even if mine requires a separate pot and an emergency stash of expired almonds.
That’s family—complicated, occasionally frustrating, but still showing up for each other. Even if it means separate pots, constant negotiations, and a mother who shakes trail mix at you like it’s a medical prescription. We’re all trying, one mislabeled vegetarian dish at a time.
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