Not everything you miss is still good

I’ve been vegan going on three years now. And I do pretty well.

I’ve built a life around it. Seeds, nuts, tofu, plant protein powders. Real meals. Real flavor. I don’t believe in trading taste for discipline. If it’s bland, I’m not eating it. Vegan doesn’t mean punishment.

People always ask why I made the switch, and I usually say I watched the wrong documentary at exactly the right time. It was one of those twin studies. One twin went full carnivore, the other went plant-based. Same genetics, same starting point. By the end of the experiment, the difference was undeniable. Weight, bloodwork, energy. It wasn’t subtle.

And then they showed how food is actually processed in this country. That part will stay with you.

So I changed.

And it works for me.

But every now and then, life piles up.

This week was one of those weeks. Taxes. Not simple taxes. LLC taxes. Multi-hyphenate taxes. Professor taxes. The kind where even with an accountant, you’re still doing mental gymnastics just to hand things over. At the same time, I wrapped a full semester teaching Meisner—eight classes a week—and I’m staring down a rewrite for a new producer. Add family, life, everything else.

So today, Saturday, April 18, I said: you’ve earned something.

And then—like temptation with a marketing budget—a Burger King commercial came on. Those ads are shot like perfume commercials now. Cinematic. Seductive. And for me, personal. My first job was at Burger King back in the 70s. That smell, that look—it’s all baked into my memory.

Also, there’s one a block away. Let’s not pretend distance wasn’t a factor.

So I went.

And the whole walk there, I’m catching myself in windows, quietly judging myself like I’m both the defendant and the jury. Still, I keep going. I get inside, go to the self-order screen like I know what I’m doing, and I order an Impossible Whopper, fries, and—because apparently we’re committing—Dr Pepper.

I even brought a cloth bag so I wouldn’t be seen carrying a Burger King bag down the street.

Closeted Burger King. That’s where we are.

I get home. Plate it. Sit down.

And immediately—something’s off.

There’s cheese on it. American cheese. Which already defeats the purpose. Then I take a bite.

Sweet. Smoky. Not fresh. Chemical.

I look closer. There’s bacon. Sauce. Something… extra.

So now I’m thinking: did I just accidentally eat real meat?

I go back to the wrapper. Check the receipt.

And there it is.

I didn’t order the basic Impossible Whopper. I ordered the bourbon bacon version. Cheese, sauce, the whole situation.

So now this is not a moral dilemma. This is user error.

I sat there and surgically removed everything. The bacon. The sauce. The cheese. Even the pickles looked questionable. What I scraped off that sandwich looked like something you’d throw away without thinking.

I kept the bun. The patty. Ate the fries. Used my own ketchup. Drank the Dr Pepper like it was part of the ritual.

And somewhere in there, I realized the point.

When you step outside your discipline “just a little,” you don’t get a little. You get the full package.

You say, “Let me have a taste,” and life says, “Oh, you want poison? Let’s go all the way.”

And the truth is—it didn’t even feel worth it.

Not the walk. Not the shame. Not the scraping.

Definitely not the taste.

Tomorrow, I’ll go back to what actually works.

But today was a reminder.

Not everything you miss is still good.