The Stress Factor

“Mom, I am having a terrible day! The HUGE English essay is due on Wednesday, and I’m feeling sick, and I REALLY should be studying for that Chem test this week, and don’t even get me STARTED on Comms, and what if I lose my scholarship? I don’t even know why I’m AT college! Why am I even here?! I don’t even know what I want to do with my life! … blah, blah, blah.”

When I have kids who are in college, I will be sorely tempted to set up a permanent busy tone during the month before finals.

She simply said, “Dia, you’re having a bad day. Yesterday (and all month before that), you loved college. Just find something to laugh about and stop stressing out!”

Yeah, right. So I was on Cakewrecks.blogspot.com looking for something to laugh about (it’s full of them, go check it out), and I found this cake (ha HA! Now this relates to food! YES!):

These were the words I lived by during what should have been an insanely stressful senior year. Junior year had just been too crazy, and though I was taking even more AP classes and had more responsibilities senior year, I decided to just stop freaking out and realize what things really mattered. I got to see my family, and sleep, and my blood pressure probably went down. Somehow, things just worked themselves out—and my GPA didn’t even (somehow?!) suffer.

I’m reminded of Count Rugen’s ironic response to a stressed-out Prince Humperdink as they’re going in to torture Wesley: “Well, get some rest. If you don’t have your health, you don’t have anything.”

In the GRAND scheme of things, college will matter. But freaking out over every assignment, class, grade, professor, activity and responsibility will NOT. I can find peace in laughing about it.

-

Re-Vision

Revision: an edited version of a project, paper, or diatribe. To "see again".

or...

I'm sick of leftovers.

Leftovers in college have whole new meaning than they did at home. Sure, Mom always made enough food to feed an army, but there was AN ARMY TO FEED.
Here, I make food in the same proportions... and I eat the same thing for a month.

Therefore, revision. The rice dish yesterday becomes a chicken base today, becomes a taco soup tomorrow, will be Spanish casserole next week.
My creative tendencies and "thrifty" (read: CHEAP) tendencies combine to help me create all kinds of things from... all kinds of leftovers.

Just today, I ruined pumpkin muffins. Don't ask me how, they just didn't work (OK, you asked, and I think it has to do with not pre-heating the oven... oops). BUT the point is, How will I make something new out of this dish that probably should've been tossed straight into the trash as it exited the oven?

Revision... gotta love it.

-

Recipes Cramp My Style

"And garnish it with a slice of lemon and a sprinkle of parsley...beautiful."

Some chefs cook with precision. Some cook with love. Some cook with only the best ingredients, while others prefer making something out of nothing. Some cook in minuscule portion, and some barbecue five turkeys for Thanksgiving. Some chefs cook with flair, some with ease, some with hard-won intuition.

Some chefs cook with audacity.

My cooking style is courageous. By necessity, sure (when you can't just "grab a p b & j" ever again, all kind of innovative possibilities open up) (how about peanut butter and jelly... on a corn tortilla?!) but it's also my personality. My reckless, impatient self has had an uphill but ever progressing battle all my life in overcoming my cautious, careful tendencies. Just recently, in my high school years, I've realized that perfection is for boring people-- and (just like in cooking) all kind of possibilities opened up.

As I was contemplating my cooking style, my roomie reminded me of a recent experience with a certain pot of onery taco soup. Upon trial run, I had to pronounce that it tasted "like mud," and sat there looking at the offending dish for a straight 2-seconds.
Then it was off to the cupboard.
I added a couple of the usual ingredients (beans, corn, tomatoes, taco seasoning) and then, when that didn't work, some... others (garlic, onion powder, cheese powder, frozen stir-fry veggies, beef, chicken, rice, and the shimmering contents of a strange, unmarked container waaaay in the back of my cupboard). "Heck, even if it tastes bad, at least it will TASTE," I decided. And you know what, it did (taste, or taste bad? I'll never tell)!

I don't try the same thing twice, because then... how would we learn? No, really, I don't try the same thing twice (and I don't use recipes, they cramp my style!) because that would involve planning ahead. How on Earth am I supposed to know what I'm going to want to eat TOMORROW NIGHT while I'm standing in the grocery store today?

Better to improvise than to organize!

Thus, akin to Disney movies, every meal requires a little imagination. Recipe calls for sour cream? Mayonnaise works just as well (don't stick up your nose until you've tried it). No mayo... AH HA! Let's try yogurt! OK, slighly different consistency... but that's what makes it fun!

I have so many examples... I can't even begin to name them. No potato masher, but Dia wants to make mashed potatoes? Let's try a whisk. Nope. Blender? NOPE. Erm... wooden spoon?

No ____ flour (fill in: teff, quinoa, potato, rice, or pretty much anything else)? Let's try... _____ flour (again fill in your choice of flour type. Or corn starch)!!!

No ice cream? Freeze plain yogurt in an ice-cube tray. Out of sugar? Honey works just as well, or better. No eggs? 2 tablespoons of ground flax boiled in water.

Sure, it doesn't work sometimes (the same roomie asked, "So where do you get your gluten-free recipes?" the other day while I was gnawing on a " personal pizza" --sauce, pepperoni and mozzarella on guess what? A CORN TORTILLA!-- and I had to think, "Stop mocking me. Recipes?? Who in their right mind would advise you to make a pizza on a corn tortilla on PURPOSE?")... but college students get to eat EVERYTHING, whether it works or not (I tell myself as I stare down at my newest try--I think I'm at #8-- at that constantly evading final product, "yogurt").

Besides, if you made the same thing every time, cooking would be like math.
2 + 2 = 4, blah, blah, blah.
Where's the adventure, intrigue, and STYLE in that?

.

Daddy's Girl

"Why do I do this?"

I ask myself, every Monday and Wednesday, as I dip my toes into the ice-cold-freezing-frigid-like-Alaska swimming pool.

I love swimming. I love changing out of comfortable clothes into an awkward, weirdly fitting, damp swimsuit. I love stretching and snapping a plastic cap over whatever my hairdo was that day. I love the questionable locker room and the cold puddles of probably-disease-filled water (water?) that I splash through on the way to the pool. I LOVE having to get in a freezing pool and how it makes me want to start exercising immediately, or lose toes and fingers. I love the pain and agony of the sprints and the humiliation of "butterfly". I love getting out soaking wet to spend the next half hour trying to get warm, dry, and dressed before walking outside and having my hair freeze.

Oh, yeah, I love swimming.

So if I love it SO much... why do I still do it?!?!?

I figured it out. It's all in the genes: Dad.

My Dad has run something like 34 marathons to date. The first one was about 15 years ago, and we have pictures of him at the finish line--well, we actually have many more pictures of me, the cute, chubby 3-year-old than we do of the bedraggled, almost-dead Dad. Despite months of diligent preparation and training, the marathon had stripped him of energy and feeling--not to mention toenails and probably years of life.

...and he wanted to do it again?

The man obviously enjoys pain: His dream vacation is walking uphill in all kinds of weather with 50+ pounds strapped to his back just so he can enjoy a view that is already hanging on his living room wall. He bikes 15 miles to work everyday--and 15 miles back--to save a couple cents on gas. His life goal is the Ironman, the Beast of all triathalons that basically sounds a little less fun than having every hair on your head ripped out by the roots.

Although...

Despite my immediate revulsion at such crazy activites... it kind of sounds like fun.
It has to be in my genes, because all logical thought screams, "Hello?! It's fun because it hurts less when it's OVER?! That's NOT WHAT FUN IS!"

Nevertheless, I find myself drifting toward the BYU triathalon booth, and looking up marathon training schedules online, and ...

again...
jumping into this freezing swimming pool.

--

Does Food Affect Health? Are you kidding?

If you complain of--or really, even mention-- anything related to any body function to my mother, be prepared for one reply:

"What have you been eating lately?"

Whether it's a slight tickle in your throat, a left molar that's aching, a slower pace on your jog or even a bad hair cut, Mom knows what's wrong:

"Obviously you haven't been getting the right nutrients. Let me mix you a vitamin cocktail right this minute."

Your complaint IS certain to be related to malnutrition--even if you can trace the ailment back to an actual event. "But Mom!" you protest. "My leg is broken because I FELL BACKWARDS off the BACK FENCE while CHASING THE CAT with my ROLLER BLADES ON! This has NOTHING TO DO with food!!"

"Your bone would never have snapped if you'd been getting your vitamin D, and calcium," she'd reprimand us. "Here's a shake with everything you need."

Since an early age, I've been skeptical of food--probably because of an infamous experience (caught on video) in which my parents laugh until they cry as they feed baby-Dia mashed potatoes and ice cream alternately. I became increasingly frustrated at this confusing food which was AMAZING one minute and boring the next.

A few years later, I came home from a birthday party completely befuddled at the menu choices there. "MOM! There were muffins, but they were SWEET, and they had frosting, like CAKE, and sprinkles!!!..." The same week, my sugar rushing little brother tried to explain that he had eaten "mom, bagels, mom, but they were yummy, and had, um, they had FROSTING on top, and they had jam inside, and, MOM! Mom. What were those mom, huh? Huh Mom?"

I remember scouring the cereal aisle with my little brother for a new breakfast cereal that fit Mom's criteria. Sugar had to be the third ingredient or lower, and exist in lower quantities than 4 grams per serving. We were SO excited when we found we could have Kix--it was a great addition to our usual breakfasts of plain oatmeal ("sprinkle on ground flax, and pretend it's brown sugar!!"). We were in heaven when we got to visit cousins--their kitchens were motherloads of Lucky Charms, Capt'n Crunch and even--no!--Cookie Crunch (COOKIES for BREAKFAST?! ARE YOU KIDDING ME?!)! I'm sure my aunts wondered why "Ian and Dia just want cereal for dinner again," but it was just such a marvel to have that much sugar in one bowl!

Later in life, I remember dreading the fresh, foamy shot glass of lawn-green wheat grass waiting next to my whole grain, honey pancakes and icy orange juice (Don't let it's innocent orange color lull you. It is another flax-seed hideout). The tiny, emerald glass of frothy liquid was the most disgusting, gag-inducing torture I've ever experienced. Mom made the distressing drink by blending clippings from her wheat grass plant, straight up. The resulting refreshment often left a cud like flavor under your tongue and a few forgotten, un-blended blades of grass stuck to the roof of your mouth--a GREAT beginning to the day.

However, the nutritional benefits were "absolutely worth it!" exulted Mom every morning. "One tablespoon of this amazing stuff has the benefits of an entire POUND of vegetables, kids! Isn't that awesome?!"

...Yeah, Mom...

In the interest of nutrition, Mom ground her own wheat, grew her own herbs and concocted her own mixes. She stored flax, sprouted beans, and later, when she discovered wheat hurt her babies, she learned how to bake with teff, quinoa, corn meal, amaranth, and a little kitchen miracle called xanthum gum.

You can get used to anything, I guess. I know, I did and in the process, I learned that food affects health--of course because of my disease, and the food induced diseases that accompany it, diabetes, lupus, IBS, acid reflux, and stomach and esophogeal cancer.

However, food affects health in all kind of other ways, too. I knew before doctors did that cough syrups are worthless and that colds are best fought with vitamins C and B, echinacea, and enough liquids to drown a horse instead. I'm a firm believer that acne is cured with an enzyme(Lysine), not Accutane, and that enough leafy greens chase away cancer cells. Carbonation will ruin your bone marrow, Omega 3 keeps the brain and heart healthy, and artificial sweeteners have direct ties with communism and devil-worship.

I've adopted Mom's philosophies, and if I have my way, my kids will never have a formal introduction to sugar until their freshman biology class reveals the unique qualities of sucrose.

--

Dimwits Get No Dinner

Last Friday night, I drove up Provo Canyon to my family's little vacation home to do laundry. I was simply loving the bachelor life: I sang along with my headphone'd ipod all the way there (a luxury not recommended with company), unloaded the car by myself (it's amazing how much old Bertha can haul), changed into some pj's, and pulled out the grill to cook up some pancakes.





As I settled down for a night of warm banana pancakes, laundry, old movies and maybe even beauty sleep, I began to review the lengthy "to-do" list that I had accomplished that busy day. I mentally congratulated myself as I checked each item off in my mind:

Buy gelatin for that yogurt recipe? ...done.
Fill big Bertha with gas? ...check (groan).
Recycle the huge pile of plastic bags accumulating in the utility closet? ...finished!
Water the plants outside? ...yup.
Deposit that check at the bank?

...

All at once the panic struck. The calm stillness of the old house was punctuated by my shrill cries of the worst swear word I know (reader discretion advised...):

"CRAP!" I yelled, and sat bolt upright with every sense at immediate attention as I realized all at once that the check I was supposed to cash had been nestled carefully in the back pocket of the jeans I had just shed, which were now...

"CRAP!!!" in the washer.

"CRAP! crud, crud, crudcrudcrud CRUD-- CRAP!!"

I was shouting as I ran down the stairs, my voice getting louder as panic grew from the realization of what I had done. By the time I burst into the laundry room, I was at multi-decibel level.

I doubt the washer has ever been accosted with such force, as it had, up to this point, been living a long and happy vacation existence in the calm of mostly sane and quiet people. I slammed the button to stop its motion and flung open the lid. My frantic slog through soggy clothes revealed absolutely nothing; no jeans, no check, not even watery remains.

I should have been calmed by the absence of soggy paper, but I was off. My frustration only mounted: "Where IS it?" My mind flew to other possibilities. Were the jeans still in the gigantic pile of laundry? Within seconds, the mountain was moved--decimated, really, and as I strode through the wake of the destruction, kicking aside t-shirts and socks, I hollered, "WHERE IS IT?" ...as if expecting a response from the aftermath of the laundry room.

A new thought fell like a forgotten rag into my busily swirling load of my agitated mind:
"Maybe I left it in the car!"

Back up the stairs I tumbled and raced outside, slamming the door behind me. My bare feet danced a jig on the ice as a quick glance through the driver's side window told me the check was not in Bertha's domain, so I turned back to search inside--

and stopped.

The door handle jiggled in my hand, but would not turn. Maybe it was stuck? I turned harder, even yanked a little. Nothing. More worried now, I gave the door a full-out dose of "open up right now, or else".

Uh oh.

Locked out.

I remembered (an aberrant thing for me right then) that in my rush to find the check, I had left a pancake on the griddle and smashed my face up against the freezing glass. Sure enough, there it was, bubbling beautifully and completely ignorant of its ensuing doom. At this point, it was certainly finished cooking, and any further time on the heat would render it inedible. I did consider the possibility of an eventual fire, but honestly, I was more worried about my grumbly stomach than I was about the dumb house. Or even the check, actually.

OK, time to take a moment and focus on more rational thinking, right?

Ha ha! Yeah, sure.
First item on the "save the pancake" agenda was to frantically run around the periphery of the house (in freezing temperatures) in my pajamas (kind of like loony Great Aunt Muriel used to do...) to search for another way in. After the cold snapped me back to my senses, I crouched on the ground in front of the door to try to think of other solutions (and to warm my frostbitten toes). It was then that I felt my cell phone bump against my leg.

Cell phone?

"GRANDMA! I'M LOCKED OUT OF THE HOUSE AND IT'S FREEZING AND I DON'T KNOW WHAT TO DO AND MY PANCAKE IS BURNING!"

Grandma knew an emergency when she heard one, and in less than two minutes, my uncle pulled up in a big hurry. As he let me into the house, he couldn't speak because he was laughing so hard, and the only words I had for him were, "THANKS FOR HELPING ME SAVE MY PANCAKE!!!"

Thank goodness, the pancake was crispy but not blackened, and I even found the stupid check in a pocket of my purse (I know! who woulda thought to look there?!). All's well that ends well.

Although, despite my abilities, great intentions, ingenuity, and a fabulous sense of fashion, this independent, confident, queen of the bachelorettes could not have bested the elements, met every challenge and saved her pancake without a little help from other people who care.

I get by with a little help from my friends...


--

The Power of Word

"It's positive? ...Are you sure?... Man..."

I am fairly sure that this was my rather anti-theatrical reply to Mom's voice on the phone-- "Positive. You have celiac disease... sorry, hon. Welcome to the party. "

"Positive" is the word of the day, and let me just tell you--that word is not just one end of the magnet anymore. I was diagnosed just less than two months ago, so the wound is fresh enough to consider the implications that the diagnosis has had in my small existence.

"Positive"

I hear there are several stages of grief--denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and acceptance.

Ha.

In the first few weeks of being labeled with that hateful word, I went from acceptance to bargaining to anger, then to depression to anger to denial to anger to bargaining to acceptance and back to anger.

Lots of anger. Not that I ask, "Why me?" or "How could this happen?" No, my thoughts focus on more pressing matters, like "SO NOW IT'S FUNNY TO LEAVE THE BREAD IN PLAIN VIEW, RIGHT ON THE COUNTER?!" and, "IF I SEE ANOTHER FLOUR TORTILLA, SOMEONE'S GONNA BE SEEING FLOUR TORTILLAS INTO NEXT WEEK." These examples are, erm, mild, compared to the pure frustration that occurs when your whole schema of "things that are edible" has been turned upside down (and shaken, and then blended on the "puree" setting for two days).

I never really went through Denial, because I have known for a while that there was a chance I'd be labeled with that terrible word, positive. The Bargaining phase again, is not much of an issue, because even an accidental slip in my absolutely gluten-free diet takes me down-and-out, so why on earth would I bring it on by cheating on purpose?

Depression, though. Wow.

This disease makes every meal a trial, every snack is a challenge and even opening the pantry cupboard is hard. I've spent time sitting on the grocery store floor bawling and clutching a package of Saltines to my chest. Afterward I felt refreshed and very silly and I dry my tears, and began anew--crying that is, as I spy the packaged cake mix and cereal shelves.

My mom has been diagnosed (again with that word, "positive") for a few years, so celiac disease was never a foreign idea to me, but some aspects of this disease have been... surprising. Not the good, happy-birthday-we-got-you-balloons kind of surprise, more like the horrible, the-birthday-clown-is-hiding-in-the-closet-with-a-chainsaw kind of surprise.

I never expected, for instance, the social isolation. It's amazing how connecting food is, and how divisive a food allergy be. No more pizza night, lunch with the girls, or dinner-and-a-movie. Food has a leveling capacity, a connective comaraderie and not being able to share the taste experience is akin to social starvation.

I also never considered that food is really a part of your identity. "Positive," and never again can you honestly tell someone your favorite ice cream flavor--because your favorite is now off-limits. "Positive," and your favorite restaurants are, similarly, history, as are your favorite snacks, dishes, ethnic foods, and desserts. "Positive," and suddenly, your every thought has to center around what you can and cannot eat and how to get more of one and reduce your proximity to the other.

Most of all, I hate that celiac disease forces me to act against my inate nature. Relaxed, anti-confrontational, service-oriented Dia has to worry about contamination, whine about crumbs, and first and foremost, take care of me --and it's driving me crazy. I can't be easygoing and share freely and let others use my food or utensils-- I have to be picky and obsessive, I have to scrub down counters before I cook, I have to scrutinize label after label after label. It seems like my care-free nature is being taken over by this needy, whiny, worrying MONSTER that was created, again, by that word "Positive."

Just one word. One word with all the implications, complications, and power in the world.

One word that had me actually considering, at a recent family party, how terrible it really could be if I were to snatch that barely tasted piece of gluten-free carrot cake off the pile of plates that was headed to the trash... Obviously some philistine does not recognize this priceless treasure, and they have decided that it was a bit too dry or dense or sweet for their taste, and they chucked it without a second thought!! The temptation was strong--

but I'm proud to say that I did not go dumpster diving that day (athough if I had, it would have been worth it).

To end on a "positive" note (I swear the pun was unintentional), I'm learning to deal with this new part of me. I am trying new things, bettering my cooking skills, and experiencing a new challenge. I am growing in my struggles and refusing to give up.

I'm learning how to be positive.

The Ratio of Vanilla Pudding to Confetti Cake

I have an announcement.

Recently, I made a scientific breakthrough that will have lasting impact on the entire world. Its reach will be epic, its effect, legendary. My breakthrough will spark new research and revolutionize culinary experimentation. It will change the face of food and science as we know it!!!

This is it:

________________________________________________

All food is not created equal.




I know, I know what you're saying! Many are screeching, "Oh course not! I'd rather eat strawberries than ludefisk any day!" Some are arguing, "All food serves a common purpose in the end, so what's the difference?!" Others of you are yelling, "What the heck IS ludefisk?"

Let me explain.

I realize that some food tastes better than other food (of course), and that some food is more palatable than other food (duh), and that no one really knows what ludefisk is (even the Norwegians). The realization that I, erm, realized, is that there are RIDICULOUS, scientifically-proven inequalities between some foods.

For instance, pudding and confetti cake.

For just a moment (and for the sake of my grade), let me attempt to persuade you with ethos. I am a registered, dyed-in-the-blue expert on the ratio of pudding to cake, because I am also a registered, diagnosed celiac. I have had field experience, hands-on practice, and personal encounters with this most specialized of subjects--I live with five wheat-lovin' girls.

You're still not convinced? Logos uses facts, so let me share with you the statistics that have been gathered from field research:

In one test alone, the subject consumed nearly five billion packages of vanilla pudding when faced with one gilamogram of frosted confetti cake.

In a closely related test in which the subject was denied a mere tablespoon of Cap'n Crunch, she decimated about eight hundred Yoplait yogurt containers--plastic, and all.

In a final test, which is now under close review by the Board of Ethical Experimentation, the subject was denied one slice of pizza, and consequently devoured six bowls of grits, twelve cold baked potatoes, eight gallons of milk, seventeen entire blocks of mozzarella cheese, half of New York and--dare we print it?-- one slice of Spam.

The facts are undeniable, but if you still do not believe, let me continue with the most powerful "toolbox" of all--pathos.

The green, rectangular container on the counter seemed to be calling to me.

"Dia," it said, "I'm delicious."

It was 11:36 on a Sunday night, and I was sitting at the kitchen table, alone.

Staring.

The confetti cake sat there, unapologetically, in all its glory. It had been placed on the "off limits" contertop (the one from which the toaster crumbs mock me every morning), but its teasing, tempting smell filled the entire apartment. The lid of the container was ajar, and through the crack, one could glimpse gooey frosting, delicately browned edges and golden flecks of fluffy cake in places where the decadent dessert had already been sliced. It had called all day long, unceasingly, unrepentantly, in those radiant, heavenly tones, and sleep was no respite--even my dreams were filled with that delectable, fobidden creation. Now, it had called me from bed, and there I sat, late at night, at the kitchen table.

Alone.

Staring.

There was only one chance for me.

I began the familiar ritual (this would be the fourth time in two hours). Container. Spoon. 2 cups of cold milk. 1 packet of instant vanilla pudding.

About 15 seconds...

Perfect. Well, not quite perfect, because of my breakthrough--all food is not created equal.
Though my vanilla pudding is gluten-free, delicious, fast, and creamy, it lacks one thing...

It's not confetti cake.

-

Missed the Boat... or rather, the rice-paper plane

My pulse was running too fast and tiny sweat droplets hung on the edges of my makeup. My breath was coming a little quickly, in small gulps, and it seemed the silk kimono I wore was made out of lead. My black wig seemed to constrict as my heart beat the mantra, "You can do it, you can do it" through heavy veins in my temples. It was hot under the lights, but I'm sure my thirteen year old self was reacting to the psychological rather than physical stress.

It was eighth grade, the school musical, and this was the opening performance.

"The Mikado" is a clever, light-hearted operetta that pokes fun at love and hate, peons and authority, ignorance, knowledge, Japan, Britain... and everything in between. The Gilbert-and-Sullivan favorite is set in Japan, where a Lord High Executioner must kill someone within the month, his ward and fiancee Princess Yum Yum falls in love with a trombone player, and said trombone player offers his life for said execution if he can marry said princess for said month---and that's just the first act! It turns out that the trombone player is actually the son of the Mikado (the emperor of Japan), the Lord High Execution does not have the guts to kill anyone, and Princess Yum Yum is a complete flake--and if that isn't exciting enough, let's throw in the acting, dancing and singing!!

A surefire hit, right?

The first performance was an 11 am matinee for the 6th and 7th graders, and we did wonderfully! We did NOT forget the one line about the stuffy death, the Mikado's throne did NOT break into pieces, and the girl-squeamish and 4-foot-nothing trombone player, Nanki-Poo (no lie) did not ACTUALLY throw up when he had to "embrace" me--the dumber than dumb Yum Yum. (I'll never live it down... ).

It flopped.

The audience simply didn't get it. The jokes were too intellectual, the singing was too cryptic, the witticisms were too, well, witty. The meaning, feeling and point were lost. Even though we did our best, we neglected to keep in mind the age, ability, and level of comprehension of our audience--and that was the fatal mistake. I mean, let's face it: any musical with the song, "Tit Willow", that mentions a "dicky bird" should NOT be shown to a bunch of tweens.

That night we had a full house of parents, aged 30 to 60, and my! what a difference. To hear an audience "get it" is truly one of the greatest feelings a bunch of awkward eighth graders can experience. The lines got laughs, the high notes were appreciated, and the feel was definitely, finally, conveyed--from stage to audience and back again.

Sur le Meme Chose

"SANS PAN? "

Her voice rose again, now broadcasting our plight to the entire Parisean restaurant.

"Oui, sans pan," I replied through my teeth. I was starting to lose my cool as I stood behind the counter and watched the large, black, completely offended French woman throw up her arms in the air--again.

"C'EST IMPOSSIBLE, SANS PAN! C'EST--"

"C'est ne pas difficile. Construit un sandwich, avec beuf, avec fromage, mais sans pan!"
My voice was beginning to rise, almost matching the already blaring level of her own. It was not that hard: my brother could not have wheat. All I needed was a burger without the bun.

This woman had had enough. With several resounding shakes of her head and sweeps of her gigantic arms, she gave the ultimatum:
"Nous ne peuvons pas a constuire un sandwich sans pan. Non".

That was it, then. "We cannot make a sandwich without bread"--it seemed to be France's national motto. We were in the city of food, and we had searched all morning outside the Louvre for something--anything--that my gluten-free brother could eat.

The French love their bread; every meal is centered around this epitome of the dining experience. Breakfast is pastries or a baguette with all the fixings, lunch comes over or inside "pan", dinner is always--you guessed it-- bread. We had passed cafe after cafe that day only to see the usual fair, charmingly written on blackboards--"croque monsieur, sandwich jambon, sandwich beuf". The ability to read and speak the language did me no good without the means of really communicating our desperation.

The culture was deaf to "just make it 'sans pan' "; it was like telling an American, "No apple pie for me, thanks", or actually, more like "Hey, can I blow my nose on your flag?"

When we had spied the McDonald's sign, we literally took pictures of ourselves pointing at it, we were so excited to finally find a restaurant where we could easily alter the choices to make them gluten-free.

Now, our hopes were falling as flat as a badly-cooked souffle.

Angry, exhausted, and just plain at the end of my options, I took a deep breath and set my teeth--probably to keep from crying. My brother, anti-confrontational angel that he is, kept insisting in a low, frantic whisper that he was fine, he wasn't hungry, don't worry about it.

I looked the infuriating woman in the eye and began again.

"D'accord. Donnez-moi les fruits, le yaourt-- deux yaourt..."

Slowly, carefully, I ordered each of the things on the menu that I knew my brother could eat. Fruit, yogurt, orange juice, ice cream--fat and sugar, absolutely not adequate fare for a constantly-famished, growing teenage boy romping through Paris from morning to night, but it would have to do for right now.

The Parisean, calmed by this apparent armistice in the attack upon her culture, took the order and got us our lunch. I think she was a little embarrassed by her obstinacy, as was I. By the end of the transaction, we at least both offered a "merci," and a subsequent "de rien"--
and I think we both learned something.

Me, that speaking the language (sorta) doesn't necessarily mean you can communicate, and that being louder doesn't necessarily make you more correct-- and she, that this was one battle France could and would win.

I now recognize that culture separated our viewpoints; but common humanity really, and basic human needs--hunger--finally brought us to, if not agreement, at least a middle ground.

My French teacher would be so proud.

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