Gluten Free Gluttony

We've all been there.


We've all done it before.



The scene is a grocery store.  A gigantic one.  Huge, in fact.

It is 3:20 in the afternoon and you have yet to have lunch.  That little bowl of Rice Chex consumed at 9:30 a.m. just isn't doing it for you any longer.  You need to eat.

And then you remember that the very reason you ate those Rice Chex is that you have made the decision to try a gluten-free diet.   After hearing so much testimony from others about how it will help your joint pain, you've decided to give it a try.  Plus, you're meeting a woman from a Sjogren's forum for lunch two days from now and she has chosen the restaurant for its fine selection of salads because she - like everyone else these days - is gluten free.

And you?   A best-selling author, recent world traveler, and aspiring advocate for autoimmunity? You need to join the growing trend.  But you hate salads.

That aside, you enter the humongous grocery store, contemplating seating yourself in one of those motorized-wheelchair-like-carts and know that you just cannot do it.  The world-traveling-author-and-guest-on-the-Dr.-Oz-show is too scared to operate it.  Plus, the reason you haven't had lunch is that you just had your hair done and you want to pretend - for just a few minutes, mind you - that you are one of those people who have their sh*t together. And no one with hair like yours has ever placed herself behind the handlebars of a motorized cart.  You swish you head around from side to side, thinking that you look like a million bucks.

First to the fish counter.  You discover that God did not create any new species of fish since you last checked.  Your entire body revolts at the thought of another evening of salmon which you will play with on your plate.  You choose scallops instead.  A member of the mollusk family.  They may just provide some entertainment by rolling around on your plate, unless you decide to be brave and eat one.

You move slyly over to the prepared foods.  Ah, already-grilled veggies.  Perfect.  They too, make for good playthings on a dinner plate.  And then you see it.  The beloved macaroni and cheese is calling to you.  But alas, you are now officially gluten free.  Perhaps dairy free too for all you know, but we'll work on that tomorrow after you finish the chunks of provolone in your home fridge.  So you appropriately choose a chicken, black bean, and brown rice cilantro bowl to bring home for your lunch.

Let's go.

But you have to pass the fresh bakery department on the way out of the store.  Bread.  The staff of life.  But perhaps this store makes gluten-free bread!  It's worth an inquiry!  "No," says the beleaguered bakery worker while bringing a fresh-baked loaf of bread out of the store's brick oven, "You'd have to go to aisle 5B where the gluten-free bread is in with the frozen food."   Aisle 5B?  This store is so friggin big the aisle numbers have to be further delineated by A, B, and Cs?  Remember, you chose not to hop into that motorized shopping cart. . .

Knowing that you have lost the battle, you swing you hair around a few more times and pick up a loaf of the healthiest-sprouted-softest-lovliest-best-smelling-heart-warming-wheat bread you can find, put it in your cart, and quickly make it through the 10-items-or-less checkout line and to your car.

You car.  Where you place that loaf on the passenger seat, quickly open the wrapper, and continue to eat it and all of its gluteny goodness all the way home from the grocery store.

The only problem that remains is to make the loaf look like it was not sold in its entirety.  In fact, some stores sell half-loafs and so you rearrange the remaining bread to look exactly like the other half had never even seen the inside of that wrapper.  What?  Is your husband going to weigh the bread in your kitchen?  Sure, he might think you were out of your mind to pay a whopping five dollars for a half-loaf of bread, but he knows that you're crazy like that sometimes.  Especially when your hair looks so damn good.

And so he enters the house after a long day of work and his laser eyes zero in on the very thing you don't want him to see, and he queries.  . ..

"Is this bread gluten free?"

What Can a Klondike Bar Do for You?

Can one eat a Klondike bar for breakfast?  Especially if it's a chocolate chip mint one?

In all my years of raising children in this house I could count on one hand the number of times I have had Klondike bars residing in my freezer.  But for some strange reason I purchased them yesterday.

Perhaps I had a premonition.

A premonition that my sweet, loving, exceedingly brilliant, grain-free cat would disappear and not come home again.  The cat who naps with me every afternoon and sleeps with me every night.  The one who brought chip, or dale, into my bedroom while I was sleeping.

The very one who has sent me into a horrible panic attack at his loss.

I need a Klondike bar for comfort, for reassurance, for satisfaction.

So, from now on, the question will not be "What would you do for a Klondike bar?" but "What can a Klondike bar do for you?"

Cheese Steaks and Pork Roll

O.M.G.!!!

That's what we Jersey Girls say.

Drip Dry and I went to a wedding yesterday in Asbury Park.  I guess you might call it a destination wedding because whenever we travel to "The Shore" we get off the parkway at exit 25, of course.  So imagine our excitement in exiting the parkway at exit 102.
  
I believe I had only been to Asbury Park once before in my life.  I don't remember why, but it had nothing to do with Bruce Springsteen, and certainly had nothing to do with a wedding but, of course, this trip did.  And boy did they Jersey it up.

A flute of champagne up arrival. A lovely (and brief) wedding ceremony in a beautiful room.  A quick sprint into the cocktail hour to nab one of the few cocktail tables with a chair for me to sit it.  

And then it began.  The food. 

Cheese steak, waffle fries, perogies, kielbasa, short rib sliders, grilled cheese, penne, filet, shrimp, crab, canoli, fried dough, cupcake, and ice cream; all topped off with the best of all Jersey inventions - pork roll and cheese sandwiches to go!

Oh.

My.

God!

You gotta love New Jersey!

Trigger Finger times two!

To My Dearest Darling Daughters,

I am writing to you to discuss a little incident that occurred at the conclusion of last night's long-overdue Family Dinner.

Now, perhaps you were still stinging a bit because I outsmarted you the night before - leaving you home alone with virtually no last-minute chance to throw a party. . .

Perhaps you were outraged that your father took your car for an oil change and didn't have the decency to fill the gas tank while he was at it. . .

Or perhaps you were just angry that I (the most annoying person ever!) made you attend church services for the first time in over a month. . .

Whatever the reasons for your discontent, my dears, you cannot deny that I lovingly prepared Jen's Sausage and Pasta toss (including a meatless version for you, Ponzi, my vegetarian daughter) along with a delicate baby romaine, spinach, and arugula salad and a yummy loaf of French bread. And (once we set you straight on your lack of manners in starting to wolf down your food before your parents even sat down at the table) you cannot deny that a fair amount of acceptable dinner table conversation passed between the four of us. . . or the fact that, for practically the first time in his life, your father didn't treat a dinner conversation like his own personal version of The Inquisition - viewing it as his only opportunity to ask you questions about your love life . . . or career ambitions. . . or test grades. . .

Yes, in retrospect, I would have to say that the dinner itself was quite charming.

But then it came time to do the dishes.

At which point the magical spell was broken when you took it upon yourselves to squabble over the washing and drying of the pots and pans (What's with this noses thing anyway??? What - on earth - would make you think that just because you pointed your finger on the tip of your nose before your sister did, that you would automatically be excused from washing the pots and pans????)

And why, Ponzi, did you take such great offense at my simple request that you nest the frying pans after drying? And were you really so broken-up that you needed to declare, See this is why I hate having dinner with you!!!! ????

And you, Trigger. Did you really need to immediately pour yourself a bowl of Cheerios and pipe in, Yeah, I like eating cereal for dinner better, anyway!!!!????

You think that you have a Trigger Finger???? Well I have a Trigger Finger too, my dear daughters, and it has nothing to do with placing a pointer finger on the tip of my nose!!!!

With all hopes for your successful rehabilitation, I am. . .

p.s. Did I tell you, I'm totally with you on the gas thing??? What kind of moron changes the oil but doesn't fill the gas tank????

How to determine if you, too, are a Mom on Spin

Now some of you may be thinking. . . Hey, my world is spinning a little fast around me, too. Perhaps I can call myself a Mom on Spin! So I thought it might just be helpful to you to list a few of the qualifying symptoms so that you can self-diagnose your condition.

You, my friend, are a card-carrying Mom on Spin if. . .

• Your children consider twizzlers a serving of fruit.
• You mix up your daughters' middle names on official documents.
• Every tampon box in the house is empty.
• You purposely withhold your daughter's acceptance to the pricier college, hoping the cheap one will come through.
• You prefer your dog's company to your own family's.
• You call the wrong child in sick from school and she gets an unexpected day off.
• Your wallet is empty.
• The deodorant is missing from your bathroom closet.
• 28 pairs of flip-flops reside near your front door.
• Your family of 32 bath towels are somehow MIA.
• At least one family car still sports the remnants of an unfriendly encounter with another driver.
• You can't - for the life of you - remember which one of your daughters needs you to make an appointment with the therapist.
• A certain Grey Goose never headed south for the winter.

So there you have it - the Lucky 13!
If you recognize yourself in more than eight of these scenarios, I'm sorry to be the one to break the terrible news to you that have now, in fact, joined the ranks of . . . .

p.s. Welcome to my world!