I never thought of myself as an entitled American, until someone told me what I could and could not eat.
I have slept on floors in roach-infested houses, on a luggage rack in the middle of nowhere in China, on tables, on inflatable pool rafts (not in a pool), in cramped quarters with too many roommates under a desk. I have eaten foods that I would rather forget, including bugs that were still kicking and meat that was not so processed that it couldn’t stare at me lifelessly and dishes I preferred to remain largely ignorant about for the sake of my digestion. And I remember these events fondly. I have never cared about designer clothes or having a new car or the suburban American dream or even the title on my business card. I have freelanced my entire adult life, and have turned down jobs that offer such things as regular paychecks because I love homeschooling my son while designing brochures and dancing in a modern company on the side, and meeting regularly with people to chat, offer advice, or to pray. I point out all of this to demonstrate that if you had told me that I had entitlement issues before last June, I would have laughed at you and then given such a long-winded argument in rebuttal you would have dropped the subject out of pure exhaustion.
You want to deal with entitlement? Tell a born and bred Southerner that they’re never eating gumbo and cornbread they didn’t prepare (carefully) again.
I suspected food allergies for a while before I went for the diagnosis. I smiled at my doctor while she gave her pronouncement upon all of my future meals. I held my head high as I walked out of the office, calmly entered my car, and drove myself home. I made it all the way inside my house before losing it. I cried on the floor of my kitchen, cradling a loaf of bread.
Yes, that’s melodramatic. And I will admit, I have had to coach myself past many such breakdowns. It could be so much worse, I tell myself. You know people going through many worse physical problems, I say. But some days the pep talks are insufficient and I just want to find somewhere far enough away that I can lose it over my flour and have no one think less of me.
I have always had a rough relationship with food. I started dieting when I was nine. My son is nine, and I can’t imagine him being self-critical enough to think his string bean physique needed to lose a few pounds. I was a string bean until I began skipping meals, and then I slowed my metabolism and got chubby. I was also probably reacting to the only thing that I would eat regularly, which was bread. I was not chubby for normal people, but I was big enough for our family. My mother frequently mentioned that I could stand to lose a few pounds. I stood behind other dancers in ballet class who were complaining about their weight and as everyone else hated their bodies, I hated mine too. My grandmother told me that I had would be really fashionable if I lost fifteen pounds.
No one told me then that my grandmother had been on Valium since the 50s and that every member of my household had some form of eating disorder, or that even at my largest I never approached being fat.
After my dad’s death, and the endless stream of family counselors, I was assigned one that actually helped a little. She taught me how to cook, and how to taste. She would stick a handful of freshly chopped basil under my nose and tell me to breathe, and as I came from a house where cooking meant “remove from plastic pouch and heat on high for 3 minutes” the smell of basil was life-changing. We made food that was best eaten with fingers. She asked me to chew my food slowly enough to savor it, and though I still counted calories I loved what I tasted.
Years later I learned that I could make a bad day better by mincing or sautéing and that I connected to cooking as profoundly as I did any other art form. I had many failures, and some successes. But no matter what happened on a given day, the scent of freshly baking bread wafting through the house was enough to cheer me. I really loved making sauces. I reconnected with my Cajun heritage through teaching myself the recipes my father and I had always talked about but couldn’t cook (my mother refused) once we moved to Oklahoma. Cooking was my constant therapy.
The day after my diagnosis when I realized I didn’t know how to make bread anymore was a difficult day. I was awful at my diet at first, as everyone who has been through this was. I was in a constant state of hives after my body had detoxed enough to get somewhat better but I was uninformed enough to avoid things like wheat germ in my lip balm. The experience I gained when we renovated our house was great preparation for my new approach to grocery shopping, as both endeavors require about as much research on the internet beforehand. And it’s a good thing I love cooking, because if you’re going to spend that much time and money on your grocery list the end result in better be pretty damn good, as otherwise you might end up overemotional over yet another meal that resembles its packaging in both taste and consistency. After I got a little better at managing the diet, a new struggle with self-image arose; I had to watch every bite that entered my mouth, or face the consequences at three in the morning. The connotation of this kind of dietary maintenance with my previous years of self-denial is sometimes impossible to avoid. My brain knows better. The rest of me is catching up.
But I have to say that nearly a year later, I don’t even miss gluten. In fact, I have a similar mental reaction to the thought of eating food containing gluten that I do to the really cheap tequila which gave me the hangover from Hades. It is so not worth it. Not worth it to me, or to my family, my friends, or any other aspect of my life. Being healthy is much better than pasta. This new realization gave me a huge sense of accomplishment until the doctor had the nerve to question my cheese intake, and soy, and now maybe coffee if I don’t get much better soon, and perhaps we’ll limit the wine that I used to enjoy with said cheese… And then I’m back to the desire to scream in frustration as what in the world can I eat in my country if I can’t have any of that?
And there is the kicker. I am really not entitled to a perfect meal every time I sit down to eat – that feeling of being offended because I don’t get what I want is the epitome of American entitlement. Even if it’s just about bread.
I am having to relearn everything about my relationship with food, again. Of course, I’m smarter this time. And I still get my basil.
I am releasing my claim to french fries. To tasty, cost-effective. or simple-to-order meals in restaurants. To any meal that isn’t planned well in advance. Hopefully I can even manage gratitude at simply being healthier, and thankfulness in those moments when I am surprised by a flavor. And maybe I can even let go of the self-recrimination for not being able to do this perfectly long enough to sleep, despite the hives.
In the meantime – I have almost relearned to make a good loaf of bread, and that is exciting.
