Life has gotten crazy, I'm afraid. We almost never go out to restaurants, fast food doesn't exist as an option for me, ordering in is just as impossible. If I don't cook it for the most part, I don't eat. It wasn't always this way, of course. Choosing to eat my own cooking was a matter of pride for quite some time. Then the world got crazy, or more likely, I just started noticing what was happening in my body.
Earlier tonight I was longing for those times. Times when we could open a bottle of wine, choose a few good cheeses and a crusty loaf of whole-grain bread and call it dinner. I can still drink the wine, probably shouldn't, but I'll go down that road kicking and screaming. But tonight, I was tired. Okay, tired and a little whiny. Those seem to go together a lot for me these days. I didn't want to plan. I didn't want to cook, and more than anything else, I didn't want dietary restrictions. I can almost feel the universe laughing at me, except, of course, the universe has no sense of humor.
I did cook, and we had a nice dinner. Still, the nagging feeling remains. I don't want to have to think so very much about every bite I put in my mouth. I, of course, am not alone. I'm sure every one of us who deal with these issues feels the same way, at least some of the time.
And the bottom line is "so what?" So what if it makes me cranky, so what if I get a little whiny, so what is I never again feel the creaminess of Point Reyes blue? So what? So I whine. I dream. Still, all in all, I am so very lucky to not be in constant pain. It's only when we're away from that agony for awhile that the thought of limitation arises.
I rarely go to restaurants for the reasons I've mentioned. This past Monday, though, was an exception. Following a weekend of Basque celebrations, Wool Grower's, a local Basque restaurant, held their annual breakfast. The menu is set: several meats, including blood sausage, eggs over easy, potatoes, cheese, salsa, French bread, and, of course, red wine. Obviously, the bread and cheese were not foods I could choose, but the rest I tried and (mostly) enjoyed. And, yes, we had wine at 9 am. We had to; it was on the table. I might have been rude to leave it. The eggs were cooked in oil, probably olive oil, I was told. Yay! I could eat them. I forgot to ask about the potatoes. I must have gotten lucky. Bottom line for me, and I know this sounds absurd, but I didn't get sick. This is a restaurant first for me. I am always as careful as I know how to be. I ask so many questions that it must embarrass those with me, and I still get sick. So all I can say now is thank you Wool Grower's. Oh! Do you think it was the wine?