THE TALE OF THE MACABRE MUESLI

I'm coming to you live today from my favorite (raw, vegan, gluten-free) cafe in Brooklyn. I had to take respite in an oasis of safety after my terrible fate yesterday: I WAS GLUTENED.

The handsome new cook at my restaurant put MUESLI in my YOGURT. What a disquieting crunch! What terrifying texture! I leaped behind the counter and spit into a paper towel, my heart racing. Of course it was a total accident. I hadn't been specific about my dietary restrictions yet. I don't know how to say "muesli" en Espanol. I was giving him a chance to settle in before I lambasted him with my inner turmoil.

I am super careful about gluten. In five years, my only real screw-ups have been trace elements: rogue soy sauce, accidental crumbs—nothing quite so powerful as a scoop of pure "oat flakes, wheat flakes, whole flour from wheat, rye and barley, sugar, dried raisins, raw cane sugar, dried apples, hazelnuts, almonds, wheat germ, and honey."

Shudder.

So after working a brunch shift with: nausea, a running nose, a sore throat, sparkly stars at the corners of my vision, foggy-brained confusion, joint pain (!) and a GENERAL FEELING OF MALAISE, I took myself to the organic grocery store to see what kind of nurturing tonic I could prepare for myself. I picked up a box of this, which seemed like just the thing:

UNTIL I TURNED IT OVER AND READ:

WE HAVE TO BE VIGILANT, my fellow gluten-frees. Vigilant at ALL TIMES. And it is exhausting. And it is depressing.

But the point is: after having a dinner of ginger ale, pretzels, coconut rice and peach kefir, I went out. I wanted to pass out. I wanted to crawl into bed and cry a little and then fall asleep. But I didn't. It was my friend's birthday and so I put on a loud song and tied up my high-heeled boots and ventured out into the night. At the bar, I had a delicious soda water with lime. I perked up a little in the company of friends, despite my left eye swelling to a near-shut, (is that normal? No.) and had a wonderful time.

Conclusion: I REFUSE to be taken down by a microscopic protein. Wallowing in self-pity is a great activity, but better than that is lipstick and old friends on a Sunday night. I saved all my wallow for today when I could write about it here.

Conclusion 2: the bar we went to had BOTH Redbridge and Bard's gluten-free beers. A little sign from the cosmos, a little wink. I'll be back there (Heathers, in the East Village) when I'm feeling up to a drink.