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.

Aforementioned Waist-High Garden

November 2009, Brussels sprouts

THE LENGTHS TO WHICH I WILL GO

So my glutenous correspondent and family member Cousin G. found a pamphlet from Boar's Head [Provisions Co., Inc.] about being GLUTEN-FREE. Cousin G. works right down the street from my old office, and on my last day of work we got together for one last lunch break. He had pizza, I had Pinkberry, and we sat in Washington Square Park, watching a man in a tiered skirt do a sort of a war dance by the fountain.

"Where's my gluten-free pamphlet?" I said, remembering his promise of yore.

"Crap, it's at the office!" he said, "I will GET IT ON THE WAY BACK."

We moseyed on back to Bleecker, sticking to the shady side of the street.

"I'll just run up and get it," he said. "Won't take a moment."

I waited on the sidewalk, in a sea of European tourists. I heard a shout - a faraway voice, calling my name.

Gravity: the great time-saver.

Oh my. There he was, up at the tippy-top and threatening to throw. Seized by the spirit of the day: Friday, my last day of work, sun shining, sugary frozen yogurt sparkling through my bloodstream, I shouted back:

"DO IT!"

A few passerby stopped to stare.

He threw - it fluttered - and yes, readers, an impetuous southerly gale whipped it up and slapped it back at the brick, and down, down into an unsuspecting tenant's balconette.

I hiccuped in my hysterical laughter, waving an imaginary flag of surrender. Then there was no choice but to walk away, pamphlet-less. Lunch time was nearly over. As I crossed the street, I received a text message on my phone:

"I am devastated."

And so, the desperate lengths the Dunn family will go to bring you the latest in Gluten-Free Information. From Boar's Head. When possible. Barring gravitational emergencies.

Gluten-Free Grumps

Bitching and moaning in three parts:

1. I went out of my way this morning to see if the fancy coffee shop by my house had any gluten-free muffins. At a previous visit I had been made aware of the availability of a gf muffin at breakfast hour. They did not have any. "We have VEGAN muffins" the girl said to me, "but they're not gluten free." In other words, they have "weird" muffins, just not my kind of weird. Thanks.

2. Whole Foods did not have any Udi's bagels today OR yesterday. Lunchtime. Disaster.

3. I am being sent to retrieve a cake for a coworker's birthday. Nothing like lugging a melting ice cream cake through the blistering heat - WITHOUT GETTING TO EAT ANY OF IT AFTERWARD.

I am now accepting whiny complaints in the comments section:

First Thing I Cooked

A sweet idea from Gluten Free Girl & The Chef: to conjure up that earliest memory, in the kitchen, wielding power and wooden spoon for the first time! I couldn't pinpoint the occurrence - so I went straight to the source (and emailed my mother). She said:

Definitely it was chocolate chip cookies. You made them with Dad while I was at an art class. You insisted you knew the recipe and they were really good (if a little dry) except you forgot the butter - so the next day they were like little rocks!!! I think you were in second grade? You were so proud of yourself (as you should have been) and crestfallen when they turned into rocks. The whole thing exemplified many facets of your Dunn personality. Stubborn insistence that you knew what you were doing and the strength of character to plow ahead and do it. You must have been even more sure of yourself than Dad as he (who knew nothing) went ahead with it. It didn't matter about the rocks, because you both had such a good time and as I remember it there was flour all over the kitchen when I came home, It was when the kitchen counters were still 70s orange and we had the stool for you to sit on. Does that help?

Yes, yes it does. In fact, I hardly remember that at all. The incident that sticks out in my mind was the time I made "everything" cookies, giggling to myself as I added ketchup, ranch dressing, and pepper to the dough. They came out hard, like biscotti, and - believe it or not - did not taste horrible! I remember hiding upstairs as my father came home, hungrily shoving two into his mouth, declaring them delicious. Perhaps that was the first time I realized - with a little confidence, it's hard to screw up food.