“Uno mas?” I looked up at Dad, and before I could answer, another piece of charred meat was put on my plate, whether I wanted it or not.

I’ve never forgotten the smell of spices and cooked meat that permeated the back porch where we ate as a family. Every Sunday, we partook in an asado, Argentine barbecue which included most parts of the cow: molleja (gizzards or thymus gland), tripe (stomach), lengua (tongue), tripas (intestines), and sesos (brains). I preferred my meat very well done, almost burned. My father, a non-wavering asado lover, could not understand why and liked his meat medium rare. I disliked sitting next to him at our barbecues and purposely sat across from him at the dinner table. The smell and sight of animal blood bothered me.

Friends and our small family gathered around the asado table almost weekly. Dad was known in his circle for creating the most delicious asados on the planet. I remember many laughs shared as we sat around the patio table overlooking a beautifully trimmed yard, which was Mom’s pride and joy. The rest of the meal usually consisted of a simple salad of iceberg lettuce with tomatoes and onions, and the occasional French fries fried in olive oil. As a young teenager, my job and pleasure was to put together the salads we ate with our asados. I remember the delicious aroma of apple cider vinegar and olive oil as I mixed the salads to the perfect consistency. Everyone savored Dad’s barbecues; they were a special time of laughter, a celebration of life, a time of releasing the stresses of the work week. In Argentina, as is in many countries, meals are a means of sharing of and partaking in love and friendship. They are essential for bonding and integral to the culture.

Growing up in Los Angeles as an immigrant from Rosario, Argentina, with asados as part of my heritage was our most consistent family tradition. It was also our custom to eat lots of pasta, rice, dairy, fish and chicken with a Spanish and Italian flair. Meat was included as part of every meal and so was Spanish or Argentine wine. My mother, as a homemaker and very loving parent, cooked locro, paella, polenta, puchero, arroz con pollo, milanesa, desserts like flan (my favorite), alfajores, pan dulce, and arroz con leche. As a result, food became my solace as I tried desperately to assimilate into the American culture and learn English without help from my Argentine, Spanish-speaking parents. However, it was to become my detriment because, as a child, I developed many colds, was overweight, and had never-ending sinusitis; eventually, as a young adult, I became asthmatic. Nevertheless, I looked forward to coming home from school and partaking in Mom’s delicious home-cooked meals!

On February 24, 1981, I arrived home after track practice and noticed numerous cars parked in front of our house. Something about this felt eerie and unsettling. As I ventured up the long stairway that led to the front porch of the house, I noticed familiar but grim faces through the kitchen window, and I knew something was very wrong. As I stepped into the house, I discovered most of my parents’ friends in our kitchen and dining area. I felt deep anxiety as I looked from one face to another trying desperately to determine what happened as I asked, “What is going on?” After what felt like an eternity in a few seconds, Dad pulled me aside and told me Mom had collapsed in the bathroom and was in the hospital. Stunned, I knew then she would not make it.

The short drive to the hospital felt like the longest drive of my life. Dad and I did not say a word to each other. So many thoughts raced through my mind: “What now? What will I do now that Mom is gone? What will happen to my family?” Once at the hospital, I discovered Mom had had a massive stroke and was comatose. Her prognosis was grim: even if she were to emerge from her coma, she would spend the rest of her life in a wheelchair as a vegetable. The shock from these words filled my heart with fear. The woman who was so vibrant, who created the wonderful meals I loved, who cared for me like no one ever had, who was the undeniable glue that held our troubled family together, who I loved with all my heart, was gone. It was too much to bear, and I asked the question we all ask: “Why?”

Mom died almost two weeks later in March. As an obese woman who lived with an alcoholic husband, Mom had been in emotional and physical pain. I could not imagine Mom living her life in a vegetative condition, but her death was unexpected and shocking. I tried to come to peace with what had happened. I ventured out to my favorite beach a few hilly blocks from our home and stared at the atypical and tranquil March surge and tide as I cried and tried to release my emotions. The smell of seaweed and wet sand permeated my being as I stood overlooking the water, anxious and despondent. Once Mom was buried, our family life, as I knew it, ended. In a deep depression and alcoholic stupor, Dad ignored me and my siblings. Life at home became unbearable. I became involved in many activities at school to spend as much time away from home as possible. No one talked about Mom’s death, no one cooked paella or Italian sausage with tomato sauce; we all lived in denial. The delicious meals, the Argentine asados, and the family traditions stopped for what seemed like years because Mom could not be replaced.

As the years passed, I often pondered why my mother had to die. I eventually accepted that Mom had died because of her unhealthy lifestyle – mostly her food choices. This was confirmed to me about a decade later when Dad collapsed at home and died instantly of a heart attack. Even though I was yet to discover the many rewards of living vegan, I knew my parents had made unhealthy food choices that contributed to their untimely deaths.

Years later, I moved to Colorado, got married, and had my daughter. As a novice stay-at-home mom, each time I stepped into my kitchen, I thought of my mother. While creating a meal from scratch, I always thought of Mom, of how she nurtured us, inspired us, and fed us. I tried to create her delicious meals: rice and bean stew (paella), spaghetti with her wonderful meat sauce, gnocchi marinara, chicken and rice soup (puchero). Although my cooking was good, nothing could replace Mom’s. In the hopes of passing on family traditions to my daughter by experimenting with my mother’s recipes, I soon discovered that although Mom’s recipes were absolutely delicious, they were far from healthy. And, suffering from horrible PMS, fibroids, chronic fatigue, anxiety, mood swings, asthma, intestinal problems, sinusitis, foggy thinking, and even depression, I had to do something to improve my health! In addition, my daughter, a toddler, would not eat any kind of meat, so in hopes of keeping her healthy, I began to study vegetarianism. I discovered that what my parents and I had been eating most of our lives was harmful, very unhealthy, and even life-threatening. I experimented with the vegetarian lifestyle and cuisine. I learned that eating any type of meat was not necessary for good health, dairy was harmful, and eating a plant-based diet was indeed much healthier. I read about the protein content in beans, the health benefits of vegetables, the fiber in fruit, and the harmful chemicals found in meat. Truly fascinated by what I read, I decided I needed to “go vegetarian.” I began to feel better.

Once a seasoned vegetarian, I soon discovered the vegan lifestyle and never looked back! I chose to become vegan for ethical reasons after being exposed to the worldwide mistreatment of animals. I learned how animals are captured, caged, raped, beaten, mutilated, and killed for our palates. Not only is this abuse completely unnecessary and cruel, but it is also extremely unhealthy for humans to consume animals and their byproducts, and it is detrimental to our planet’s environmental health. As a caring person, I could not participate in the abuse of animals any longer. Participating in my family’s tradition of eating cows (or any other animal) was no longer an option. And, to my surprise, after choosing to live vegan and consume a whole foods, plant-based diet rich in raw fruits and vegetables, all of my aliments including sinusitis, asthma, depression, uterine fibroids, chronic fatigue, PMS, anxiety and foggy thinking disappeared! Even though my decision to live vegan had dramatically contributed to my healing, I realized then that veganism is not about food. It is an ethical stance against the exploitation and use of animals. I now live vegan for that reason alone.

I continue to think of Mom and Dad daily and thank them for their contribution to my healthy, vegan, abundant life. I miss them dearly, but I now share with others what I have learned, what I have experienced, and who I have become because of their sacrifice and misguidedness. My goal is to welcome new family traditions and create vegan versions of the Argentine meals I ate as a child. My mission is to raise consciousness worldwide by inspiring, encouraging, and teaching others about the abundant, vegan lifestyle.

“Uno mas,” Dad would say to me every time before adding another piece of asado to my plate. I wish I could have told him that “uno mas” was so harmful to his and Mom’s health. How I wish I could tell him now that “uno mas” was the catalyst that changed my life.