I used to think I knew a thing or two about food. I used to think I knew a thing or two about life. I became a strict vegetarian at 14; I didn’t eat anything that moved and I tried to eat organic whenever I could. These eating beliefs formed a central part of my identity; who I was and how I believed the world should work. I felt superior when I ate. Nobody could beat me when it came to healthy eating. I thought that my ability to eat raw foods or probiotics or spirulina or to chew slowly or to eat only one bowl of food made me a better human being than the one eating a cheeseburger and fries. In retrospect, those habits maybe made me a healthier human being- but they also made me an inflexible human being, not to mention a real pain to host for dinner. I will never forget the time I was invited to eat in a very humble one room home in Southern Patagonia, a land where not much flourishes other than the hearty lamb they graze and some root vegetables such as potatoes. I sat down for dinner and refused, to the bewilderment of my hosts, to eat any meat. Since there was meat in everything, they hastily cooked me a pot of spaghetti and served it to me with a drizzle of oil on top. The Mother of the family did not stop fretting the entire time I was there about the fact that I had not eaten any of her food, prepared with such love. This was not the kind of person I had meant to become. This was not who I wanted to be. But years of strict eating had made me strict, fussy. I wanted to be a joy to host. I wanted to be fluid, to be free. I had to find a new way to be awake on Earth, be a good environmental citizen, while still being a good guest.