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Following is an excerpt of a journal entry I attempted to write late last December, about a trip to St. Louis the previous week for my little sister’s wedding.

The rest of the weekend happened meal-to-meal. The only moments we weren’t eating, we were waiting for appetizers. We did take a long walk on Friday, but we were walking to a restaurant.

Here’s a typical fancy dinner entree in St. Louis: eighteen ounces of meat, and an asparagus spear. Vegetables are simply a garnish. I felt like I was back in Germany. Or, worse, Cincinnati.

My family, knowing my self-imposed dietary restrictions, made arrangements for vegetarian and vegan entrees whenever possible. Their good intentions were filtered through the limited capacity of local commercial kitchens: St. Louis chefs don’t know how to cook vegetarian meals. Wedding guests were served poached salmon and a pork chop, two small potatoes, and two or three pieces of garnish. My vegan plate, mercifully free of cheese sauce or other secretions of livestock, consisted of a scoop of bland white rice, a row of bland steamed garnish, and — salvation! — a grilled portobello. I’m not that fond of portobellos, but it was the best thing on the plate. Any portobello in a storm.