When Westley asked for some muffins over the weekend (his word for muffins is "muh-tits," which might be the best toddlerism ever), Rob carefully adapted the recipe he was making to fit my dietary restrictions. The resulting almond-quinoa muffins (adapted from Veganomicon) were vegan (of course), gluten-free, soy-free, contained no refined sugar, and tasted delicious.
And they still made me sick.
My heart sank into my crampy, miserable stomach as I started to wonder whether my problem with baked goods wasn't the sugar or the gluten, but the refined-ness, the flour. Maybe not just gluten-containing flour, but any flour was unacceptable. Was I looking at a flourless--or, (help me, Mary) grainless--diet?
It seemed extreme, yes. But as I sat at Sunday brunch, staring at the second half of my "old world" cereal, which strongly resembled something I could make at home, I felt that familiar stomach sickness. I hate going out to eat, I thought.
I'm thoroughly convinced of the connection between food and depression; I desperately wish I could go back and give my 16-year-old self a gluten- and dairy-free diet instead of the medication that created more problems than it solved. But my new diet, which initially rescued me from postpartum depression, is starting to create a different kind of sadness.
Meal-planning and grocery shopping, which I used to truly enjoy, have become unpleasant chores. On the rare occasion that I find myself in a restaurant, I have to figure out what's "safe" to eat--as opposed to what I'd like to eat. And I fucking hate that when my sweet little son, who loves to share his food, offers me a bite of his toast, I have to say, "No, thank you, honey."
And then I add, "That's all for you." Because I refuse to tell him that the whole-wheat seed bread he's so enjoying will make Mommy sick.
But I'm starting to wonder if that one shared bite might be worth it.