Eat a Peach 

As a student at the University of Utah, I was lost in a series of changing academic majors ranging from business to geology. Besides not knowing what I wanted to become—I still don't—I also didn't know who I was, which I also still don't know. I was reading all kinds of mystic books from India and Nepal, along with rigid philosophies, too, until it became apparent that although I understood concepts, I couldn't concentrate on them for the time it took to listen to "The Dark Side of the Moon" by Pink Floyd. Indeed, it's fair to say I had more philosophical talks—and more success with the women folk—regarding Led Zeppelin's "Stairway to Heaven" than I ever did regarding Nietzsche.

For some reason, that area of Salt Lake City was among the first to have cable TV installed. I had about a dozen channels and as many new friends attracted to the coffee table punch-button box with a wire attached to the TV. We all loved the WGN network, and each became a Chicago Cubs fan.

One night, my good buddy, Wayne "Woody" Robison, a Khe Sanh Marine from Fillmore, Utah, had just left my house. He loved the Basil Rathbone Sherlock Holmes, so he was a frequent guest. When that night's movie ended, Woody put down his can of Olympia beer and headed home.

He wasn't gone five minutes when my phone rang. The voice asked if I was John Saltas. The voice said, "I know where you live, and I have a gun pointed at you, and I'm going to kill you." As I was falling into the fetal position, I remember wishing Woody and his M-16 would come back for another Oly.

I turned off the lights. I had two cousin cops, and the first one answered my panicked call. He calmed me down, and I managed to leave, not spending the night there, not getting shot, yet wondering when he'd target me again.

I guess the voice was angry and aggrieved at a prosecuting attorney with the same name. More than 20 years later, I was day-drinking at Green Street when my name came over the intercom to take a phone call. When I got to the reception desk, another fellow was there to answer the same call. I realized who he might be, so I asked if he was an attorney. He said, "Yes," and I said, "Nice to meet you, John. You damn near got me killed!"

We said our cordialities and moved on. I didn't want to stand with him too long, if you know what I mean.

Living mid-block had certain disadvantages for potential murder victims. Yet, since it was mid-block, it had lots of empty space. Where I grew up in Bingham Canyon, many people carved out small gardens, but it wasn't really a thing in Salt Lake City. One day, I rang up Woody, and we went to the "hippie" store on the northwest corner of 900 East and 900 South. I forget the name. Nature's Way?

I left with not only vegetable seeds for my new garden to be, but also three early editions of Mother Earth News. I soon had a garden, and I was also tying macramé, making candles, learning composting and growing mung bean and alfalfa sprouts. The latter were perfect for my new diet—I'd become a vegetarian.

That lasted about six months. First, I found a way to re-introduce fish—school boys need their kippered snacks—then eggs, because no one can eat Wheaties every morning. Other than that, I was very diligent, except all I was really skipping out on was red meat. At a company Christmas party, I caved and took a bite of steak.

I'm still not a burger and steak guy. However, I remain surprised I made it six months, because back then, a vegetarian really didn't have many options other than to eat tons of salads and beans. To be a vegetarian in the 1970s took supreme dedication. I'm not that guy.

But today I fully endorse that path—vegan too, as it's the diet I'm eating now during Greek Orthodox lent—no meat, no fish, no dairy. I may have stayed the course back then if Salt Lake had the great options for plant-based dining that it has today. Every good restaurant in town now has vegan fare and, with so many new ethnic choices, one doesn't have to fall back on an iceberg salad three times a day. Eating plant-based is crazy good at places like Zest, Vertical Diner, Buds and many others, like the Mexican vegan eatery, Yumz.

You may wonder why a fat guy who mostly opines about Utah's political Jell-O salad is a fan of plant-based eating. Well, it's healthy and good for the environment, and because one of these days, Utah will have to use our shrinking water reserves to grow plants for human consumption, not to lavish on cattle and alfalfa. Get your meal planning in order for when that day comes—because like it or not, cowboys are a dying breed and that chicken-fried steak at the local diner will be gone along with him.

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