Deborah Madison is done with cookbooks. Now, she’s making corn dogs and fried chicken.

Patrick was vegetarian when we met 30 years ago, and I generally do prefer plant foods. We’ve always eaten with a strong emphasis on vegetable cuisine—it’s just what we enjoy. But then he had this sudden hankering for meat, especially steak, which he had a lot of growing up. What could I do? I cooked it for him. And, you know, I found I liked it, too.  

Patrick’s a cancer survivor. It was in his throat, and it was very, very hard on him. The treatments left him feeling really depleted—I think he’s still feeling the effects of it, four years later. I do wonder if that’s connected to his sudden interest in meat, after eating a certain way for much of his life.

Whatever the reason, we’ve started to alternate—meat one night, vegetarian the next. We had a lot of sausages. We ate a lot of pork, because we have a neighbor who raises pork, and he gave us roasts and things like that. I made fried chicken. And corn dogs kept coming up. I said, “I’ve never had a corn dog. What is it?” I went on YouTube and got the instructions, ground my own flour, and used Niman Ranch beef frankfurters. It was pretty good (though it looked more like a chile relleno when I was done with it, all flattened out).

I have never seen myself as a vegetarian, even though I spent most of my career writing vegetarian cookbooks. There’s a quote I love from Wendell Berry’s essay collection Another Turn of the Crank that helps explains my concern:

‘Even the most scrupulous vegetarians must use the world—that is, they must kill creatures, substitute one species for another, and eat food that otherwise would be eaten by other creatures. And so by the standard of absolute harmlessness, the two available parties are not vegetarians and meat eaters, but rather eaters and noneaters. Us eaters have got ‘em greatly outnumbered.’

I’ve kept that passage on my computer for years and years. The first time I read it, I thought—that’s how I feel. I love vegetables, but eating them is not a salve. We can’t escape from the fact of our eating; no matter what, we are killing living things so that we can live ourselves. If it’s not an animal, it’s a plant or something else. What matters more is that food tastes good and that it’s sourced responsibly.

Another reason I’m against rigid food rules is—well, people change. They just do. Their values change, or their bodies change, and it’s important to pay attention when those things happen. I see this all the time with the people I teach in my cooking classes. A woman once said, “I’ve been a vegetarian for 20 years, but lately I’m just dreaming of turkey. What should I do?” I said, “Why don’t you eat some?” She said “Oh no, I couldn’t do that. I’m a vegetarian.” To me, that’s ridiculous. What if her body was trying to tell her something? Maybe she wanted turkey because she needed some tryptophan to help her sleep or something. I don’t know—that was for her to find out.

Unless there’s a medical reason not to, I think accepting with gratitude what you’re served is really important. We might call that manners, which I don’t think people have any more in the same way that we used to. Oh, I’m vegan—therefore, I don’t want to sully my precious body, or whatever it is. Why not be more open and gracious?

In An Onion in My Pocket, I write about a memory that means a lot to me: A meal I shared with Ernie Macy, an Arizona cowboy who taught me barrel racing. He once made me a lunch with the worst kind of steak fried in salad oil, and zucchini cooked for an hour in an entire stick of margarine. It was the kind of stuff I would never eat or buy. But if I’d said “no thanks,” I never would have had the wonderful meal that he made. It was so good, and he was so happy I appreciated it, that I still remember it literally decades later. 

I think, too, of my father’s last meal—or the last time I was able to cook for him, as he was dying. He was living with his caretakers and their fifteen-year-old son in a tiny town in upstate New York. I’d just come from a talk in Iowa, and I’d brought some leftover goat cheese and leek tarts that had been served after the event. I also had some asparagus and morel mushrooms that I’d found and asparagus I’d bought from the farmer’s market. My hosts had never had goat cheese before; they asked me if the asparagus stalks were artichokes. And they cooked steak, which was practically new to me. For dessert, we all shared some M&Ms from a bowl. It was a helter-skelter kind of meal, but I loved the creativity and open-mindedness that was on display that night—and my father was delighted.

As I approach this new period in my life, I’m trying to remain open to what might come next. I do love writing—the whole process of sitting at my desk and doing it—even though I’ve come to find recipes a little limiting. I’m trying to keep my garden alive, though we’ve had a terrible drought. And I’m cooking for Patrick. The meat has been an unexpected adventure for us, and I’m glad for it. While it seems like everyone’s finally discovering the vegetable side of the plate—well, I’ve known about that forever and ever and ever. Suddenly, I’m discovering the meat side of the plate and it’s not so bad. In fact, it’s pretty darn good.

I do feel kind of adrift, sometimes. I’m not an expert anymore in anything, and that’s  disconcerting. It’s hard to get used to. I’m also older. I look at all these younger people who are busy changing the world, and having careers, and writing about this and that. Sometimes, I’m a little jealous—but at the same time, I can’t be. Because it’s life and life only. I have to come to terms with it myself.