The un-foodie truth is, I sometimes resent the fact that I have to stop what I am doing and eat. It interrupts my flow. My doing flow. My thinking flow. My reading flow. Cooking takes time. And energy. And a certain level of focus (if one wishes to avoid burning the last clove of garlic, anyway). Cooking takes planning. One has to remember to physically get to the market now and then (which requires driving, another activity preferably avoided, right up there with drafting grocery lists). Avoiding said planning, one can far too easily find oneself without a scrap of dark chocolate in the house.
Chocolate may be the primary reason I get to the grocery store at all.
Before I discovered I had celiac disease, I ate simply. I was a vegetarian. Food was no big whup. As long as I had a bag of brown rice in the pantry, I was golden. I stir-fried veggies. I bought French baguettes daily. I baked the occasional chocolate chip brownie. But I wasn’t hyper-focused on every single morsel that went into my mouth. I was loose and free, and true, I cooked. But food was more of a natural expression of my life as an artist and a mother. Cooking was as organic as breathing, a creative thing that didn’t require surgical precision. I cooked simple, down to earth food. The kids grew up well fed and acquainted with pasta and fresh basil, olive oil, pumpkin soup. And real mac and cheese. Today both sons are amazing, intuitive cooks.
But when celiac disease made its appearance (in vivid ways you don’t want to know about, Sweetpea) it complicated everything. Spontaneity (my favorite trait) atrophied. My easy going relationship with food morphed into an anxious love-hate alliance. Yes, I rolled up my can-do sleeves and problem solved. I did. I was a good sport. I tackled gluten-free head on. And I’ve been churning out gluten-free recipes for ten years. And I tried dairy-free for
four five seven years. I’m no slacker. But.
I wish I was “normal”. As in, I wish I could grab a crusty bakery baguette and a salty wedge of Parmigiano Reggiano for dinner. Like I used to. When making art was romantic and love was new.
Which gets me nowhere.
Except back to the place I started.