I felt like I’d been punched in the gut. But in contrast to the previous few weeks of feeling generally crummy, this time, the wind was literally knocked out of me. By my doctor.
A few days earlier, she’d tested me for celiac disease, an autoimmune disorder that prevents a person from properly digesting gluten, a protein found in wheat, rye, barley, and, let’s be honest, just about everything good in this world. Now she’d just called with the results, informing me that some of the tests were positive, some were negative. This wasn’t normal. “Everything may still be OK,” she explained. “But we’ll have to do more bloodwork to be sure.”
What my doctor didn’t have to say was that if the second round of tests came back positive, all of my relationships and habits surrounding cooking and eating would be annihilated. Even before I’d gone to the doctor, I was shaken by the events of the previous few weeks. Without my habitual food cravings, I feared the food writer’s equivalent of a divorce: loss of appetite.
Now, with the looming loss of gluten, it wasn’t just the potential forfeiture of bread that made me feel sick. It was the whole shebang: No more soy sauce. No more good, thick chowders. No more bedtime bowl of Cheerios. It seemed that my entire relationship with food—and, by extension, my entire sense of self—might fall apart. I struggled to breathe, mentally catastrophizing my career in a matter of seconds. My doctor said she’d call Monday with the results.
It was Friday. Friday, as it turns out, is a very long time from Monday. So I did what any self-respecting lover of all things food-related would do: I decided to spend the entire weekend having fabulous, unprotected sex with gluten.
I slammed two sticks of butter onto the counter to soften for chocolate-chunk cookies. Feeling stubborn and suddenly hungry for the first time in a month, I grabbed a pen and started scribbling down what I creatively titled “Things To Eat This Weekend.” I concentrated my efforts outside of my own kitchen, desiring those things that weren’t exactly practical to pull off at home. When I stopped to read what I’d written, I realized that these were the foods I lived to eat—foods that I could avoid only if I stripped my tongue of taste buds and invested in a considerable amount of hypnosis. If I was facing abandonment, I wanted a final fling. I’d savor a good, greasy kiss from the double-bacon deluxe with cheese at Red Mill Burgers. I’d lick a hundred translucent shards of impossibly flaky croissants from my fingers, eyes closed, thanks to Café Besalu. I’d slurp ramen at Samurai Noodle, memorizing how it felt as the noodles slithered in my mouth, my lips slippery with pork fat-flavored ChapStick. It would be a long, slow, tortuous dance through my culinary Eden.
As I pondered my list, it occurred to me that it’s perhaps not a coincidence that “glutinous” and “gluttonous” are spelled so similarly. Nothing without gluten would pass my lips until Monday. I’d eat my way through the pain of pending rejection, savoring every detail, every quirk, every crumb.
That night, I gorged on an immodest number of cookies. I went to bed early but spent a couple of hours tossing, distracted, comparing my potential split with gluten to a very real separation. I pondered whether to call a friend of mine who’d just been dumped, thinking he might be able to help me feel less forsaken. After all, our situations seemed pretty identical, save for the minor detail that my break-up, should gluten and I permanently part ways, wouldn’t leave me searching for a new apartment. I decided that at least I had that going for me, which calmed me slightly. I took a Xanax and passed out.
I spent the next day edibly etching the word “last” across my renewed appetite. My husband and I started our Saturday here in Seattle as we always do during ski season: with sausage-and-egg breakfast sandwiches. The last time I’ll dig English muffin crumbs out of my ski boots, I thought. A full 20 minutes later, we stopped for a Frisbee-sized cinnamon roll slathered in orange-tinged icing. The last time I’ll buy pastry that could double as a Princess Leia headdress. I had a BLT for lunch before polishing off the rest of the cinnamon roll. My last sandwich. We met friends for a drink later in the afternoon and I downed a hefeweizen. My last beer. Dinner was at Tavolata, my favorite Seattle pasta joint, where I swooned over my spaghetti studded with anchovies, chilies, and garlic, committing its flavor to memory. My last meal here. (OK, maybe that was a little dramatic. I could always go back and order something without gluten. But why subject myself to the hauntings of a hundred happier moments?) Afterward, I still had room for doughnuts.
Sunday morning. Before the newspaper had even hit the porch, I’d torn into a ham-and-Gruyère croissant. My husband and I cruised the farmers’ market while munching on a crusty baguette. Then I ordered a slice of thin-crust pizza from the market’s mobile wood-fired oven. I forced a vegetarian pal to come to Red Mill with me, where I picked the burger bun apart and obsessively rolled it into little balls before eating it. She just stared at me, not knowing what to say. We’d invited friends over for dinner that evening, so I made spelt risotto and, after licking my plate, gorged on pain de campagne dipped in olive oil.
All the while, something deep inside my brain, a little nagging whisper—or was it my husband’s voice?—reminded me that there’s more than one way to make a cinnamon roll, a slice of bread, or a strand of spaghetti. That, in fact, there’s more to eat in the world than wheat. But, like a bitter divorcée-to-be, I had no interest in reason. I couldn’t see a way forward without what I couldn’t have.
With each bite that weekend, celiac disease seemed more and more probable. You know how sometimes something happens—or doesn’t happen—and you make up a completely irrational explanation and then convince yourself that it’s true? That’s how I was with gluten. By bedtime Sunday, I was taking it personally. Gluten hates me, I thought. Then suddenly—OK, finally—it registered. No one had ever really broken up with me. I was being dumped for the first time. By a protein. Or not. I wasn’t sure. And that was the problem.
I spent most of Monday staring at my phone, realizing that the last time I’d willed someone to call like this was when I was still wearing braces. Now, like then, I wanted validation. I needed resolution. I thought about sending gluten a handwritten note with two boxes: Check here if you like me. Check here if you don’t like me. To distract myself, I made pizza with nettle pesto, kale, and semi-dried tomatoes, ate a panini while it was still too hot, and rattled around the house looking for other foods to cry over.
Late Tuesday afternoon, I got my call. The test results were all normal—except that stubborn antigliadin antibody, which some believe is the leading indicator of celiac disease. “You probably don’t have celiac,” were my doctor’s opening words. “But we can’t say for sure without a biopsy. You could try not eating gluten for a while…Although, that might not be the solution, either.”
I should’ve been elated. It seemed that gluten wanted me back. Mostly, anyway. So what now? Make-up sex, I decided halfheartedly. Spaghetti bolognese. And the next day, I’d go for that ramen I’d missed over the weekend. No protein dumps this girl.
But when I opened the pantry, I saw a bunch of needy, non-commital pastas and flours staring back at me, daring me to prove to them—and to myself—that I needed gluten. Now that gluten had decided to crawl back to me, head hanging, it looked rather pathetic.
One of my friends is Shauna James Ahern, a.k.a. Gluten-Free Girl, who’s quite possibly the only person on the planet who makes eating gluten-free sound downright sexy. Maybe if I called her, she’d do break-up duty, commiserating with me. Reassuring me that no, I didn’t need gluten. I tried for a moment to pretend that going gluten-free could be an adventure. Character building, even. I’ll admit, I was curious to learn about all those flours I’d marveled over but never actually used in baking. I was sure Shauna would show me The Way. So I called her.
Some of her tests had come back negative the first time, too. Yet when gluten rejected her, she turned her back on it, defiantly and irrevocably, head held high.
I decided that mostly wasn’t good enough. I didn’t want to be the girl who was lucky enough to maybe get a second chance. No woman wants to be loved conditionally.
I was going to give eating gluten-free a try. It wouldn’t be easy. I’d miss the burger joint. But what if I actually started feeling better?
I had my answer.
“It’s not you,” I said, staring into the pantry. “It’s me. I just need some time to myself. Some time to think.”
And with that, I packed up all of gluten’s things and tossed him out.