Dear Memere

I thought of you today.  I had steak and green beans for lunch — fresh green beans.  Do you remember when you used to make me cube steak with green beans, mashed potatoes and that gravy powder for lunch?  Those were the days when I slept over after Pepere died.  I was 7.  The scent of the green beans and steak heating in the microwave today brought me right back to you.  We would sit at your table in the kitchen, and I would scarf food and ask you questions, and you would answer me in that curt way.  You know — answering me with the Iron Hand of Memere, kind of like that time Dick asked, “What are these?” when you put a plate of brownies in front of him, and you answered, “They’re good!” and gave him a look.  He didn’t ask any more questions, but I was not so easily dissuaded.

You never ate as much as me.

Sometimes I wonder what you would think of all this gluten nonsense.  It’s not really nonsense, but it can feel like it, particularly when I’m hungry and I can’t find something to eat, and people are looking at me like I’m purposely being difficult.  Somehow, I know you’d adapt.  Either that, or you’d forget and try to serve me bread, and then I’d remind you and you’d say, “M’oh tad zee!”  I don’t even know what that means.

Your birthday is coming up.  My birthday passed.  How about we celebrate by you sending me some divine inspiration on how to can?  I’m not into saving cooked chicken for later (like the kind we found in your kitchen cupboards), but I wouldn’t mind learning the art of making grape jelly.  There are some blackberry bushes in the park across the way — I bet that would turn out some awesome preserves.

Lots of love,

your little cochon

More Adventures in Gluten-Free Dining

It was a horrible weekend.  On Saturday, I had a migraine.  Seth received a call from his family asking him to drive to New Hampshire to bring his sick dad to the hospital.  Before he left, I ran to the chocolate store to buy Seth’s mom some chocolates for Mother’s Day, so Seth could bring them up.  And when I say “ran,” I mean, “I drove my car.”  But I didn’t realize I would have to contemplate literally running home.

My car decided to leak brake fluid all over the chocolate store’s parking lot.  See, and when I have a migraine and stress and a tummyache from Excedrin, it makes me do crazy things, like start to cry in plain view of a busy intersection.

That’s why Kate and Dave ended up in Massachusetts at 2:30 on what was supposed to be a lazy Saturday afternoon.  As we were all starving, and I had no car to go grocery shopping before they arrived (leading me to clean the kitchen in its entirety, including the inside of the dishwasher), we went to the only lunch shop in the area that had a gluten-free menu.

I called ahead to make sure they could do gluten-free, and this wasn’t just a trick of TEH INTERNETS or something, and here’s what the manager said:

“When someone comes into the shop with a gluten allergy, I personally make take the wok into the back room and make sure that it is cleaned on our hottest cycle of our dishwasher.  Then when we cook the food, we make sure to turn the wok up to a higher setting than we would normally.  And all of our staff is highly trained in food sensitivities and know to be very careful to avoid cross contamination — they know to wash their hands and change their gloves and sanitize the cutting boards.”

Here’s what actually happened at the restaurant.

Me to myself: Oh, their burrito filling is gluten free, and served in a bowl.  I’ll have that.

I watch burrito guy fold up someone else’s burrito on the cutting board, and then he turns to me.

Me to burrito guy: I’d like a burrito, please, but I’m gluten-free.

Burrito guy: …okay…

Me: …

Burrito guy: …

Me: So you’re probably going to want to change your gloves.

Burrito Guy rolls his eyes, changes his gloves, turns burner on and places a wok on it, and starts to joke with a coworker.  Then he puts oil in the wok, and pulls out the meat for the burrito filling.  At this point, I break in.

Me: Um, excuse me?  I called earlier and spoke with the manager, and he said that when someone who is gluten-free comes in, he makes sure that the wok and cutting boards are sanitized?

Burrito guy glares at me, flips burner off angrily, clangs hot wok onto a different burner, grabs a second wok and storms off with it.  At this point, I motion Kate (who has already paid for her food and mine) over to me.

Kate: I saw what you did just there.  Did you tell that guy he had a dirty wok?

We giggle.  Burrito guy comes back out, but starts working at the sandwich counter, and avoids eye contact with us.  Instead, a manager comes over.

Manager: Did you call earlier about gluten?

Me: Yes.

Manager: You wanted a burrito?  That’s going to come in a bowl.  And we don’t have to sanitize the cutting boards with burritos.

Manager proceeds to wash his hands, get new gloves, and make me burrito filling in a bowl.  He adds toppings like tomato and lettuce using different tongs for each addition, until he gets to the cheese.  Then he puts his gloved hand into the cheese and sprinkles it on top.

At this point, I’m too faint from hunger and Excedrin and my earlier cleaning binge to notice the importance of the lack of tongs for the cheese.  It wasn’t until I was halfway through the damn bowl that I realized that if the manager put his hands in the cheese, everyone else put their hands in the cheese too.  Can you see what I’m getting at?  The cheese was cross-contaminated.  Sigh.  I was glutened for three days.

To Eat or Not to Eat?

Our wonderful French-from-France friend Emma brought Seth some wine and chocolates back from France for his birthday.  Don’t they look luscious?  I wanted to tear into the bag first thing: Migraines?  Who gives a crap?  Now give me some French chocolate!

I didn’t eat any.  They’re sitting in the freezer, waiting for me to be migraine-free.  I’m hoping this will be some time in the not-too-distant future, but you never know.  How long do you think chocolates will keep before they go bad?

Food, Glorious Food

I’ve been thinking about travel — and in particular our honeymoon — and how I want to go somewhere that is known for its food.  Is that strange?  Most of my thoughts center on food.

New Orleans sounds good.  They have beignets there.

How about Italy?  Olive oil, and everything else that Italy’s known for.  I don’t need to elaborate.

Um… Paris, please.  Well, I’ll just send you to David Lebovitz’s website and get you to look through his food photos.

It seems like every new food blog I read comes from either Seattle or somewhere in California.  I don’t know why.  But now I want to go there and find out.

Sometimes I think, “I could be a food blogger,” but I don’t know about that.  I want to eat my food and not photograph it.  Maybe if I had a work-from-home job, I’d be more inclined to photograph my food since there’s natural light during the day.  Anyway, I’m using this blog as an excuse to look at food photos.  Have you tried Flickr yet for food photos?  Must stop now.  Hungry.

I’ll Subsist on Air and Sunlight

I feel a strange affinity with gluten-free blog writers.  It’s probably because people allergic to gluten have a lot of food restrictions, and I have a lot of food restrictions, and that makes me feel like we could be friends.  Well, we could be friendly, at least; I eat a lot of things they don’t eat, like wheat bread and pasta and baked goods made with flour.

Many, many people have suggested that I have an intolerance to wheat, and that’s what’s causing the migraines.  I’d like to get tested for gluten intolerance, or cut it out of my diet for a week — but then what would I eat?  That’s why I haven’t been tested.  What if I do get tested, and I am allergic to wheat and that’s what makes the migraines go round?

Here’s what I have to say to that: Hurray!  Halle-frickin-lujah!  No more migraines!  I don’t care if I have to live on photosynthesis and vegetables.  A dearth of migraines is worth it.  Of course, it would mean major lifestyle changes for Seth and me, and changes anyone who cooks for us.  But I’m willing to brave it.  (I’m making a bigger deal out of this than it is, I think.  Gluten-free people, some of them anyway, seem to eat well enough.)

And now that I’ve gotten my hopes up, reading beautiful prose about gluten-free living and imagining not having migraines, I’ll go and get tested and find out that gluten isn’t the answer.  Isn’t that the way it works?  Murphy’s Law and all that?  Is that even Murphy’s Law, when you jinx yourself by saying something is true before you know it?  Maybe that’s counting chickens.  It doesn’t matter.  I’ve decided that gluten isn’t causing the migraines.  Now here’s hoping for a surprise ending.