I’m going to try and not write about this kind of thing too much, because I suspect it’s a tad boring for you gluten eaters. But my recent necessary diet change has caused a few issues that’ve really cheesed my potatoes (both cheese and potatoes, incidentally: gluten free).
Let me sum up what’s happened: I had severe intestinal distress all day, every day, for approximately eighteen months. It took a long time for the gastroenterologist to finally say, “You know, these other issues (I’d been diagnosed with colitis and SIBO during this journey) are symptoms of something else, like a food intolerance. Stop eating gluten.” So I did.
For those of you considering giving up all that is wheaty and good in this world, let me say first off, if you don’t have to give up gluten, don’t. It’s no fun going through the withdrawal, and once you’re on the other side of it, you will approach every meal with trepidation, both wishing you could remember what flavor tastes like and feeling terrified you might accidentally “get glutened.”
It’s a thing. And, for lack of a better term, it sucks.
When you eliminate all gluten (and you can’t go half-baked on this: you have to cut all of it out if you want the excruciating belly cramping, intestinal wringing-and-spewing, all-over body aches, hand and foot numbness, weird rashes, and brain fog to go away), make no mistake: you will feel like crap for the first couple of weeks. You will suddenly look upon cake, pasta, bread, oatmeal, pudding, couscous, soy sauce, and licorice with renewed longing, even if you rarely ate or even liked any of those things before the very moment you were told you couldn’t have them. You’ll be achy and cranky and, as some family members commented in less-nice terms, “generally unpleasant company.” Also, you’ll still be running to the bathroom four or five times a day until all that gluten is out of your system.
But by week three, you’ll be feeling much better. You’ll be halfway through your morning and suddenly realize your back and knees aren’t barking in pain. You’ll feel clearheaded and energized and yes, thankful most ground coffee doesn’t contain gluten. You’ll dread the potty less. And you won’t be in there every twenty minutes, either. Hallelujah!
You’ll also be much more aware of food ingredients, to the annoyance of anyone eating near you. But you have to be. Because now that you feel life is worth living again, you’ll do whatever it takes to keep that happy feeling.
There are some places you’ll feel “safe” eating: at home, or at my sister-in-law’s house (seriously, Joy, you are a rock star). But the thing is, lots of times when people get together, there’s a meal involved. Meet up for dinner? Um . . . can I talk you into a nice fasting instead?
And that’s where getting glutened comes in.
I thought the Ninety-Nine Restaurant was a good choice. They’re one of the few places with a “Gluten Sensitive” section on their menu. The first time Jason and I met up with a friend there, I was confident as I ordered a cheeseburger on a gluten-free bun. I saw the disclaimer, but still trusted these guys to do their best.
The meal came. It was good. Then the waiter came over: “How’s that gluten-free bun? Just like the real thing?” He was all smiley and winky and stuff.
And I thought, That was weird.
The next day I woke up and wondered when, exactly, I’d been hit by the rhinoceros driving the Mack truck. Everything hurt, from hair follicles to toenails. I was walking like Marty Feldman in Young Frankenstein, only slower and without the witty one-liners. And let me tell you, this is not the shape you want to be in when the gluten-induced cramps hit and you need to dash (um, wobble with purpose?) toward the bathroom.
It passed in a few days, but being back in that sore, stabbing-stomach-pains, potty emergency place was miserable. Once I felt spryer again I chalked this mishap up to a crabby waiter (except substitute “crabby” with a euphemism for anus). It was just one guy. Right?
So when a different friend and I were making plans to meet up over dinner about a month later, I agreed to give Ninety-Nine another try. It was a different town, likely a different waiter, and hey, the menu proved they were trying, right?
I ordered balsamic chicken with mashed potatoes right off the gluten-sensitive list. Made a point to say I couldn’t eat gluten—even made a point to point at the section in the menu. Asked why rice wasn’t listed there, because it’s usually safe. In hindsight, maybe I was making too much of a fuss. It’s possible our waitress considered spitting in my gluten-free selection. But I was scared. I didn’t want to be hit by that rhino again.
The meal was yummy. So far, so good.
In order to experience how I felt the next morning, this is what I’d like you to do: get in your car. Drive to Las Vegas, Nevada, and park in the Seven Hills, Henderson section of town. It’s a nice golf community—be sure to admire the beautifully manicured lawns. Find the biggest mansion in the area, climb over the polished marble wall, and land on the other side. March up to the door, ring the doorbell, and when Mike Tyson answers, ask him for the all-over iron fist body massage.
Then call him a wuss. That should about do it.
Here’s my point:
Let me sum up what’s happened: I had severe intestinal distress all day, every day, for approximately eighteen months. It took a long time for the gastroenterologist to finally say, “You know, these other issues (I’d been diagnosed with colitis and SIBO during this journey) are symptoms of something else, like a food intolerance. Stop eating gluten.” So I did.
For those of you considering giving up all that is wheaty and good in this world, let me say first off, if you don’t have to give up gluten, don’t. It’s no fun going through the withdrawal, and once you’re on the other side of it, you will approach every meal with trepidation, both wishing you could remember what flavor tastes like and feeling terrified you might accidentally “get glutened.”
It’s a thing. And, for lack of a better term, it sucks.
When you eliminate all gluten (and you can’t go half-baked on this: you have to cut all of it out if you want the excruciating belly cramping, intestinal wringing-and-spewing, all-over body aches, hand and foot numbness, weird rashes, and brain fog to go away), make no mistake: you will feel like crap for the first couple of weeks. You will suddenly look upon cake, pasta, bread, oatmeal, pudding, couscous, soy sauce, and licorice with renewed longing, even if you rarely ate or even liked any of those things before the very moment you were told you couldn’t have them. You’ll be achy and cranky and, as some family members commented in less-nice terms, “generally unpleasant company.” Also, you’ll still be running to the bathroom four or five times a day until all that gluten is out of your system.
But by week three, you’ll be feeling much better. You’ll be halfway through your morning and suddenly realize your back and knees aren’t barking in pain. You’ll feel clearheaded and energized and yes, thankful most ground coffee doesn’t contain gluten. You’ll dread the potty less. And you won’t be in there every twenty minutes, either. Hallelujah!
You’ll also be much more aware of food ingredients, to the annoyance of anyone eating near you. But you have to be. Because now that you feel life is worth living again, you’ll do whatever it takes to keep that happy feeling.
There are some places you’ll feel “safe” eating: at home, or at my sister-in-law’s house (seriously, Joy, you are a rock star). But the thing is, lots of times when people get together, there’s a meal involved. Meet up for dinner? Um . . . can I talk you into a nice fasting instead?
And that’s where getting glutened comes in.
I thought the Ninety-Nine Restaurant was a good choice. They’re one of the few places with a “Gluten Sensitive” section on their menu. The first time Jason and I met up with a friend there, I was confident as I ordered a cheeseburger on a gluten-free bun. I saw the disclaimer, but still trusted these guys to do their best.
The meal came. It was good. Then the waiter came over: “How’s that gluten-free bun? Just like the real thing?” He was all smiley and winky and stuff.
And I thought, That was weird.
The next day I woke up and wondered when, exactly, I’d been hit by the rhinoceros driving the Mack truck. Everything hurt, from hair follicles to toenails. I was walking like Marty Feldman in Young Frankenstein, only slower and without the witty one-liners. And let me tell you, this is not the shape you want to be in when the gluten-induced cramps hit and you need to dash (um, wobble with purpose?) toward the bathroom.
It passed in a few days, but being back in that sore, stabbing-stomach-pains, potty emergency place was miserable. Once I felt spryer again I chalked this mishap up to a crabby waiter (except substitute “crabby” with a euphemism for anus). It was just one guy. Right?
So when a different friend and I were making plans to meet up over dinner about a month later, I agreed to give Ninety-Nine another try. It was a different town, likely a different waiter, and hey, the menu proved they were trying, right?
I ordered balsamic chicken with mashed potatoes right off the gluten-sensitive list. Made a point to say I couldn’t eat gluten—even made a point to point at the section in the menu. Asked why rice wasn’t listed there, because it’s usually safe. In hindsight, maybe I was making too much of a fuss. It’s possible our waitress considered spitting in my gluten-free selection. But I was scared. I didn’t want to be hit by that rhino again.
The meal was yummy. So far, so good.
In order to experience how I felt the next morning, this is what I’d like you to do: get in your car. Drive to Las Vegas, Nevada, and park in the Seven Hills, Henderson section of town. It’s a nice golf community—be sure to admire the beautifully manicured lawns. Find the biggest mansion in the area, climb over the polished marble wall, and land on the other side. March up to the door, ring the doorbell, and when Mike Tyson answers, ask him for the all-over iron fist body massage.
Then call him a wuss. That should about do it.
Here’s my point:
- Don’t trust restaurants when they say something will be prepared gluten-free. Sometimes they lie.
- Seriously, if you want to get together, can we please catch up over just coffee?
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