Adventures in (not really) Gluten Free Cooking

Yes, we are gluten free.  But is what I am doing considered cooking?  Probably not.

We ate burgers (gf veggie for the adults, grass-fed cow meat for the kids) every day this week.  Sometimes with a side of gf pasta with olive oil and cheese.  Salad for the adults, frozen peas for the kids.

I am not exaggerating.

I am paralyzed in the kitchen.  I don't think I normally cooked with all that much gluten, but now it is as if my brain is on ice.  Stuck.

On the second (or third?) night of the neverending burger-fest, Dave ran out to get buns.  He meant to get Udi's, but got Rudi's WHEAT buns instead.   Only after they were in our brand, spankin' new glutenless toaster was this discovered.

It was hard not to yell.  One letter separated the toxic from the nontoxic.  Easy mistake, right?  Heated discussions on how many crumbs of gluten could have fallen into our toaster in the span of 2 minutes.  Enough to make us toss it?  Is it possible to shake the gluten free?  Anxiously, we decided to clean it.  I now avoid it.

Last night, I mustered up enough brain power to attempt gluten free pizza last night.  (I used this recipe.)  I created a "surry" with flaxseed meal to approximate the requisite glutenous goodness to make the superfine brown rice flour, tapioca flour and potato starch come together in a ball.  After the "dough" still looked like a pebbled sandy beach, I doubled the surry.  It did come together in this ethereal, temperamental glob.  The yeast seemed to work quite hard to get the heavy mass to rise just a smidge.

As we had to get rid of all of the rolling pins, I pinched out the dough into a circle.  I tried not to think about my stretchy, soft, creamy gluten pizza dough as pieces of the crust broke off.  Parbaked.  Topped.  It looked decent.  I just couldn't bring myself to take a picture.  Hipster food photography, be damned.

Nora declared that I deserved a chef hat.  Dave repeated that he loved it, even though I was on to him that he just can't bear to survive another week of veggie burgers.  Spence told me quietly that he didn't really like it so much.

If this was just one night, one attempt of gf pizza dough, it would be a hit.  But, it isn't.  This is forever. And I want my gluten back.

Gluten(less)

Dave's in the kitchen throwing away my flour.  The King Arthur Bread Flour, the All Purpose Flour.  The Softasilk Cake Flour.  The smidge of Gold Medal Whole Wheat Flour.

I am two rooms away sobbing, heaving.  

He's chucking my Trader Joe's Garlic Naan, the St. Paul Bagel Bakery Everything Bagels, my malt extract for my homemade bagels.  

We are getting rid of the gluten.  All of it.  Or rather, Dave is.  I am grieving the gluten.

He has packaged up the Cheerio's, the Rice Krispies.  Tossed all of my Morningstar fake meat products.  Pulled the possibly contaminated Ghirardelli Dutch-processed cocoa. 

I want my daughter to be healthy, for her belly not to hurt every second of every day.  I yearn for her blood to hold on to iron so that she can have more energy, to avoid the crank that only malnourishment can bring.  I am just also in denial.  Celiac?  Nora?  It can't be.

Peering into the kitchen, I see him nearing my spices.  Penzy's spices--the Sandwich Sprinkle, the Tuscan Sunrise, and even more small glass jars with pale yellow labels.  Back off.  I already confirmed they are gluten free.

My kitchen has become a hazmat zone.  The sweet jalapeño colored walls, the yellow lotus beam.  This room is so core to my identity, a social gathering spot.  The site of many thrown together meals for the dear 9 to 13 pals that will drop by on a Friday night for some homemade pizzas.  And now, I can't even bear to enter it.  

Mind the Gap

It had been wobbly for quite some time.  There had been long discussions about the tooth fairy and whether she was real.  Was the tooth fairy a girl?  A boy?  Or something else?  Should we find some high speed cameras to document the fairy's arrival?  Or would that scare her off forever?  Do fairies need privacy?  Does everyone have their own personal fairy?  Or is their just one?  

He had just got home from dinner with his best buddy.  Apparently, he ate lots and lots of pasta.  In a foretaste of adolescence, he immediately darted for the kitchen to get some more food.  He came back chomping on an apple.  He gobbled it up and went to throw away the core before he came to get some "large muscle activity" (his words, not mine.)  As he looked in my direction, I saw the gap.

"Spence, you lost your tooth!"  

Where was the tooth?  We retraced the steps.  We dug the core out of the trash can.  (Yes, I realize we should be composting.)  No tooth.  Had a terse discussions about the necessity of digging through the entire trash can to unearth the very tiny tooth.  We decided a note to the tooth fairy would be sufficient.

("Dear Tooth Fairy,

I lost a tooth in the garbage maybe!!!!

Spencer).

Thankfully, she read the note and left the goods. She even left behind a smidge of fairy dust!

First Library Card!

Let the fines begin!

The Midas Touch

I didn't realize that when we got to this page he was wincing.  It seemed like a fairly benign rif on the King Midas story.  His best friend turned into cheese.  I am not giving anything away by telling you that Tweet, the bird, was restored to his birdlike ways.  Happy ending.  I bundled up the kids with last kisses and shuffled them off to bed.  

As I was attending to Nor for some reason or another, when I turned around to see that Spence was sobbing.  The hard sob where you cannot breathe.  I rubbed his back as he sputtered out "I just can't get the picture of his best friend turned it cheese.  How must he feel?"  I picked up his body from the bed and he curled around me.  I stumbled back into my room.

We cuddled, nose to nose.  His tears dribbled onto my cheek.  I walked him through the story, told him that after bad moments comes good moments.  He was not appeased.  Still struggling to breathe, he sputtered out, "I just keep thinking of you...your mom...how you would feel..."  His voice devolved into muffled cries.  I held him tight, told him how after losing my mom I finally got to get this wonderful life now.

I also wanted to say that I was cuddled, loved, listened to, that I was held close in the hearts of those who were left behind.  I just didn't want to lie.  Parenting when your own childhood was a litany of traumas tears at your soul.  Fills you with guilt, makes you think by sharing bits of your life you are fraying the innocence of your sweet babes.  Where's the road map to navigate through this land mine?

All the way down 38th, Nora pleads for me to drop her off first. I patiently explain that it simply will not work--Spence needs to be at school by 7:30, I need to get to work and the environment needs us to conserve gas. She just wants to show off her big brother to all of her friends at school.

This happens every day.

 I pull up outside of Bancroft, where the other parents line up to drop off their kids. I jump out of the car to open his door and to guide him to the sidewalk. I kiss the top of his head and marvel at who he is becoming.

Every day.

He stops outside the car and presses his hand to his lips to blow kisses. I return them, trying to meet the quickness of his hands and the intense look in his eyes. He starts to climb the steps and pauses at the first landing. He turns quickly and beats at his chest and points at me. I'm never sure where that gesture came from, but I am so thankful for it. He waits until I repeat it.

Every day.

He continues to climb the steps until he is at the top. Nora begs for me to roll down the window, if it is not down already. She yells out, "When we get home, we can play puppies!" He nods and smiles. She continues, "Or something you like to do. Like spies." He hollers down, "Yes! Or something we both like...puppy spies!"

This happens every day.

Reports from Kindergarten