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.