Soaring Through Blue

Forgive me, my friends.

It's been forever since I've posted here.

You see, I was glutened.

No, wait, let me back up. You deserve the entire saga, replete with every last detail.

It matters.

You see, our stove, in our island home, stopped working, spontaneously. Ay god. The Chef and I could hardly imagine a more calamitous disaster erupting in our midst.

Us?

Not cook?

For a day? Goodness, whatever would we do with ourselves?

Our hands twitching to get into the food, to fluff gluten-free wholegrain flours together?

To pound a delicate fish with a meat tenderizer?

To nestle our ears up against the sizzle-burble of sauteeing bacon searing in its own fat? Our feet, restless to dance, forced to be sadly still as island rocks on the beach? Our hips, longing to bump each other, made to stay apart?

But wait.

It got worse.

The repairman couldn't schedule us for an entire week.

A WEEK.

Goodness, can you imagine?

Yes, we have a grill. And yes, The Chef can go to his restaurant and cook. But it's not the same as when he cooks for we three. And what about our toddler's sad look when she asks, "Mama? We bake? We bake now? Me think asiago cheese biscuits with asparagus tips and McCormick oregano would be delicious. Why we not bake now? Mama? Why you crying? Mama. Want to bake. Where scales?"

No matter. I could always spend the extra time on Twitter, garnering sympathy for my unbelievable plight.

I mean, me.

Can you imagine?

Without a stove or oven for a week?

Ay god.

Of course, I planned to take the toddler to The Chef's restaurant at least several times to eat. She adores running around reaching into the food bins and sitting on the counter, gnawing on an apple while I snap photos and The Chef waves his knives around.

She's a restaurant kid, you see.

And me, I adore ordering dishes from the gluten-free menu and snapping photos of them to put on Twitter, spontaneously.

Happy.

That was my week.

Until.

Until, one evening, in an island restaurant---no, of course it wasn't The Chef's restaurant, where did you get that idea?---where I was forced to eat because of the whole stove affair, seconds after I forked a load of what was supposed to be gluten-free food into my eager mouth, salivary glands working overtime in anticipation, I felt my gut seize up.

And the brain fog.

Ay, the brain fog.

Like a heavy scrim of grey clouds over the Pacific Northwest when summer tomatoes dance on vines everywhere else?

That kind of brain fog.

It could only be one thing.

Gluten.

How could this happen?

On the island?

In an island restaurant that was absolutely not The Chef's restaurant? I know I said we could go eat there while the oven was down but that doesn't mean we ate there THAT night. You can't prove that we did.

I've lived here for two years. Two years spent carefully, assiduously, training wait staff, chefs, line cooks, hostesses, restaurant owners, dishwashers, busboys, cleaning crews, vendors, laundry service people, restaurant patrons, and passersby about feeding me safely.

How is it that there is someone who didn't get the memo?

I went home. I felt wretched.

Wretched.

The bloating. The gas. The wasted hours spent in the bathroom. The scrimming brainfog greyness clouding my every thought like a camera oscura.

So very, very wretched.

Who was to blame?

The Chef said it was an inexperienced line cook, young, probably right out of Vashon high school, new to a summer job, not realizing that all it takes is a half teaspoon of gluten to make me grow wretchedly ill for three solid days.

I was livid. How can this even happen, in this day and times? At an island restaurant that was familiar with celiac disease because there are only a handful of restaurants on the island and even fewer that I eat at, not that it was The Chef's restaurant, of course?

How?

And the toddler, not comprehending why Mama was spending all her days in the bathroom instead of next to her, on the sofa, while Sesame Street cheerfully brayed from the television set, her hands plunged into a bowl of gluten-free pasta with Manchego cheese, slivered salame, porcini mushrooms, McCormick dried seasonings, ceci, prosciutto, and artichoke hearts with a dressing of imported Japanese vinegar and olive oil glugs.

Goodness.

Two nights later? Still in the throes of bloat and searing intestinal pain and the scrimmy cloudcover curtain of dim grey brainfog? When friends were meeting at my favorite gluten pizza restaurant? The one where everyone's face wears a quiet, happy smile? I was not about to let a half teaspoon of gluten keep me down. I struggled through my agony to make a ball of gluten-free pizza dough, then get the toddler ready to go---which really all I had to do was make sure she was wearing the monkey boots and coach her how to make sure they were in any photos that other bloggers might snap of her. And find a semi-clean pan for the dough. And then get to the ferry and the restaurant.

I was not about to let a half teaspoon of gluten hold me back. The best thing for bloated, tender intestines is a dish with cheese and salty, fatty, processed meat. Doctors have been telling us for years that bland foods are what's needed when recovering from intestinal ailments, but I read somewhere that the opposite is true. I can't find it now, it may have been on my blog, come to think of it, but it works for me. So I do it. You should too. Order yourself a pizza and dive your face into it, with gusto.

Get right back into the saddle.

Still, I am left with lingering fury over how this could happen.

Restaurant owners?

Servers?

You have to serve folks who can't eat gluten.

Deal with it.

According to the Disabled Americans Act, all public places must be able to safely feed me.

And if you can't, you're going to hear about it.

From me.

Just ask that California pizza place.

And certain airports.

And certain dumb airlines.

Bring it on, my friends.

Bring it ON.