You start talking gluten-free to me and I will not be able to stop myself from slapping you with a loaf of french stick. Ridiculous I know. This is of course why life, being the consummate lover of a good joke, should send some food related issues my way.
When I first met my husband, some fifteen years ago in university, at some point, he told me he was lactose intolerant. I paid little attention to that fact given that ninety-seven percent of the grocery funds went to beer and ramen noodles and the other three percent to the bus fare to get to the grocery store.
Years later when we married and had proper jobs and went grocery shopping for proper grown up foods like imported beer to go with our ramen noodles, I gasped when he put Lactose-free milk in the grocery cart.
“Are you serious with that?” I groaned.
“Um, yeah, milk really kills my stomach. Why?”
“You know it’s some kind of marketing ploy, all these special brands.”
“Yeah, well it’s this special brand of milk or a special brand of toilet paper if I buy regular milk, the choice is yours.”
I opted for the extra carton of his special lactose-free milk.
Years passed and I grew to accept us as a two milk carton family.
What’s that you ask – why didn’t I simply drink the lactose-free milk?
On principle - the principle of liking regular milk and not wanting milk minus the fat or lactose or from an almond or a coconut or a jersey cow raised just for me and fed organic clover.
Then our daughter, Sunny came along.
She was breastfed for most of the first year and things were good and I developed a very profound respect for all lactating mammals and once I decided I had enough of being one myself I started introducing her to cow’s milk. Regular cow’s milk.
Over time – let’s say two years – we noticed our daughter frequented the bathroom quite a bit.
You know, my husband said, she is probably lactose-intolerant.
WRRRRR – WRRRRR – WRRRRRR – “What’s that, honey? I can’t hear you, I am just making her and I some milk shakes….” WRRR – WRRR
I did not want to believe it.
Took her to the pediatrician. You guessed it.
Allow me to recap the carton count in our fridge.
Husband – Fat Free Lactose
Me – 2% Regular or “Real” milk, as I like to call it
Daughter – Whole, Organic, Lactose-Free milk
Along comes our son, Julian.
Another round of breastfeeding. A year or so later and it’s time for milk. Things seem okay, no poopie blow outs. In fact, no poopie at all. Hmmm.
Off to the pediatrician. Return with a mild laxative. Continue with milk and food. Still no poopies.
I do a consult with Dr. Google. “In children with chronic constipation an often missed diagnosis is allergy to the protein in the milk which can only be resolved by eliminating dairy products.”
Eliminate dairy. Poops return.
The fridge – bulges.
My head spins.
If my family all want a glass of Ovaltine I need twenty minutes lead time to sort out all the milk.
I have a milk decoder posted to the fridge for the babysitter.
I was speaking with Heather at 4amblogger who is a recent Paleo convert and she quipped to me, “You know, you should just stop fighting it and ditch dairy all together.”
I slapped her through the phone.
“It’s just a phase, damn it! Some day we will all sit together in a Dairy Queen eating Blizzards and getting ice cream headaches like a regular family, you’ll see.”
“No, you probably won’t.”
“I know." Sigh. I know….
I am not, however, relinquishing my DQ Blizzard Fan-Club membership, you never know when they will come out with an organic-soy-triple brownie mudslide Blizzard.
And if you think I am above sitting by myself at Dairy Queen enjoying a full fat extra- lactose blizzard of the month and not being at the hot-yoga class I told them all I was trying out, you would be mistaken.
I am the one in the yoga pants with cookie dough stains.