Hannah Jayne Schwartz

    My serial dating habit wasn’t purely selfish, though – I actually did enjoy getting to meet a fantastic if not completely off beat cross section of hungry male humanity, all while sharing a seared ahi appetizer and toast points.

    I had my off nights, however, when I was completely blinded by a charming voice and piercing eyes to realize (the dashiki and moccasins should have given it away) that I was about to date a fruitarian. Although, how could I have known? I fell madly in love with Sochee as he was strumming a guitar and singing on the lawn outside my Lone Mountain campus. He grinned at me and we started talking; before long he was packing up his guitar and we were off to lunch – he was in the mood for something fresh. We strolled to a bistro in Noe and were seated at a sunny sidewalk table, my backpack, full of promise and Sylvia Plath novels slung over my chair, his guitar leaning against his. We chatted until Sochee opened his menu and frowned.

             “Something wrong?” I asked, already settled on a Niciose salad, extra side of bread, and Napoleon dessert. 

               “I don’t eat meat,” he said, still scanning. 

                I pointed to a large section of vegetarian options. “How about something here?” 

                Sochee bit his lip. “I don’t eat vegetables, either.”

            “Oh. Uh, cheese sandwich? Or, no dairy?”

            “Dairy is unnessarily pulled from the teats of cattle.”

            Having generally eaten such cattle between two slabs of bread, I considered milking the least of their worries.

            “Against the cow’s will. Against the milk’s will, for that matter.”

            “I see.” I didn’t know milk had will.

            “That’s why I don’t eat meat; there is no reason for them to be slaughtered for our consumption.”

            I considered changing my Nicoise order, unsure of his stance on fish, but fairly certain of what it might be, as it was rare to hold a plate of mixed greens and haricots verts out and have a grilled tuna jump onto it.

            “Why don’t you eat vegetables? If you’re a vegetarian – or vegan – it’s kind of the root word.” I loved being an English major.

                Sochee wasn’t impressed. “I’m not a vegetarian. I’m a fruitarian.”

    By this time I had lived in San Francisco just over a year. Very little shocked me, and I was used to hearing the brand new terms – bisexuals, trisexuals, asexuals, lacto-ovo vegetarians, vegans with wheat allergies, and the non-dairy crusaders – but fruitarians were a new breed. I immediately imagined my Sochee, in a burlap burka, a strawberry emblazoned on his chest, worshipping in an orchard somewhere. 

              “So you only eat fruit?”

            The waitress neared our table, and by now my stomach was growling, demanding some food mercilessly and without the will of the cow, dropped on my plate. I brightened, intent on saving my free lunch. “There is a fruit bowl.”

            The waitress stopped at our table. “What can I get you?” She looked at me, but Sochee jumped in. “How is your fruit bowl fixed?”

                The waitress looked shocked. “Uh, well, it’s cubed melon, grapes –“

            Sochee’s eyes widened. I should have known:cubing fruit was against the will of the fruit. He looked at me. “We should go.”

            “But, fruit,” I reasoned.

            “Is your fruit hand picked?”

            “Yeah, actually. It’s all organic, from local farms. The farmers actually bring it themselves a lot of days.”

            This impressed me, but disgusted Sochee. 

              “Why don’t you give us a minute?” I told the relieved waitress. Then, to Sochee, “That sounds good, right?” 

           But he was still angry, gathering his wrap (another clue) and guitar. “I’m sorry, I can’t eat here. I can’t eat anywhere where they rip fruit from the vine.”

            “How else do you get fruit? It’s attached to a vine. Or a bush. Or a plant…” My eyes followed a grilled chicken Caesar going to the table next door.

            “Fruitarians believe in respecting Mother Nature. We won’t eat her animals, be suckled from the teats of her cattle, stealing nourishment from her baby calves' mouth. We will not wrench vegetables from the Earth – have you ever heard a carrot scream when pulled from Mother Earth’s womb? They scream you know, and it’s blood curdling.”

              I had heard vegetables do nothing less than sizzle in my stir fry pan.

            “In perfect balance with Mother Nature, we only eat the offerings that she makes to us. Fruit, when it wants to be eaten, will fall from the tree, and offer itself for your nourishment.”

               I lived in city. There were no fruit trees. The closest thing I got to an offering by Mother Nature or a sacrificial nectarine was when Wild Oats had free sample day. And somehow I think Sochee would shun that, what with the wanton exploitation of toothpicks.

     Needless to say Sochee and I never had a second date. He was sweet, but I couldn’t bear the thought of being splattered with red paint, the word Fruit Pimp being scrawled across my windshield as I ate a banana on the way to class.

Need more? Check out Hopeless Romantics and the unfortunately true stories from the Crisis Queen Blog.