Cold Comfort

The creators of my favourite ice cream long ago confessed that the name Haagen-Daaz has no meaning. It’s not Danish or Norwegian or Swedish for anything.

Okay, but it means something to me. Apparently, it means comfort food.

Truthfully, Ter and I almost always have one flavour in the freezer, doled out by the egg spoon after a particularly spicy dinner, but the current stash of four flavours plus a box of bars suggests a deeper purpose than mere avoidance of acid reflux. Pictured is the second round of the summer just past; by July 31, we’d already blown through three tubs and a box of minis. Can you say stressed?

I did more than mainline H-D this summer. I drank tea lattes by the super-hot, extra foamy vat. I continually tested the limits of my GF sensitivity with pizza crust, pie crust, cookies and toast made from real bread. I emptied two bottles of cinnamon vanilla Baileys and rediscovered the joy of Amarula-laced Red Rose (or, more accurately, Amarula laced with Red Rose). I was so consumed by grief that I stopped caring about what I consumed. Sympathy and support could only do so much while I struggled to maintain a semblance of normal in a world gone severely abnormal. I wanted to feel better. I wanted comfort. So I gave myself permission to eat what I wanted when I wanted, and if that was a bag of Cheetos for dinner, so be it.

It’s not surprising that what I eat to help myself feel better actually makes me feel worse. Wheat curdles my thought process and gives me headaches. Milk in great abundance inflames both joints and ligaments. Wheat and dairy together ignite the stomach pain that Ter jokingly refers to as “gas giants”. Too many starchy carbs congest my sinuses and make me really sleepy. And sugar? Hey, I can quit that anytime I like, wink wink.

I have to shape up if I want to feel more like myself again. If I want the strength to create a new normal, if I want to embrace my life and kickstart my bright and shiny future, I had better cool it with the naughty nummies. Ter has made it her personal mission to ensure I get enough protein in a nutritionally-balanced diet, but she can’t watch me every millisecond of every day and I’m not so scared of her that I won’t pop that box of Smarties when she’s not around. Which means it’s up to me. What do I want more? To feel better right now, or to feel better, period?

Exactly how cold is that comfort?

Glutinous Maximus

Phase Two of my gluten-free existence began this week, with the freezer purge I was emotionally unprepared to do six months ago. It’s one thing to decide not to bring naughty nummies into the house. It’s quite another to discard one’s existing supply.

Phase One began last Easter. I had been chronically suffering from a growing list of minor maladies that included joint aches, mood swings, a sluggish thought process, lethargy, and headaches. The headaches were the worst. I blamed them on chocolate and hormones, but when the bi-weekly migraines became a series of week-long events, Ter took action. She was led to a magazine article about wheat allergies and when she checked the symptoms against mine, she ticked every darned box. By then I was so miserable that I’d try anything. I’d already given up chocolate (to no real avail); no sacrifice could surpass that one on the martyrdom scale. I stopped knowingly consuming anything containing wheat, barley, or rye, and almost immediately began to feel better.

My headaches ceased. My ears unplugged. My thought processor quit grinding and began to operate smoothly. I (mostly) quit dozing at my desk. My joint aches virtually disappeared. So did my second spare tire! Yikes, who knew that giving up sticky buns would be so beneficial?

Not buying new sticky buns was no problem. Tossing the buns in my stash was going to be more difficult. I looked at the collection of full freezer bags and wanted to cry. Taking pity on me, Ter suggested we do it another day.

That day did not happen until this past weekend, but I must have been ready for it. Ter handed me each bag, I checked the contents, closed my eyes, ground my teeth, and discarded. Then I hauled the whole weighty sack down to the garbage and nearly threw my back out getting it into the dumpster. The freezer now has an echo – and more room for ice cream!

Plus, I’m eating chocolate again J

Phase Three is looming and while I have no idea how I’ll get through the fall and winter holidays, I will get through them because I must get through them if I want to maintain the status quo. The greatest loss will be my wee sister’s killer mincemeat tarts. She bakes them for me every Christmas and this year … augh, I’ll whine about that when the time comes.