They Said This Would Be Fun: A Story of Misguided Baking Endeavors

Before the Dark Times. 

I am still in recovery, friends. 

No, not from the Snowmagedden we are experiencing in the Pacific Northwest. No, not even from having a toddler, being about 6 months pregnant, and having fibromyalgia. Although, all those things factor into the Tale of Woe with which I am about to regale you.

I attempted to make English muffins yesterday. 

Gluten free English muffins. 

And I thought it would be a good idea to start them at 4pm. 

4pm, my friends. 

Why, you ask? 

Because the need and desire and heart for breakfast sandwiches is STRONG. And powerful, overriding a bastion of common sense and knowledge that baked items made with yeast require TIME. Time, the very thing that a mother of a toddler knows is most elusive and fleeting of all, well, things. Especially around 4pm.

I think it all started with the Egg McMuffin. Let’s face it—those things are plainly delicious. And conjure up images of early morning road trips, pale orange juice from cool plastic cups, and cheerful, bright yellow wrappers. The Egg McMuffin is a pure thing, and should be thought of only with love and fondness. 

My next obsession with neatly presented breakfast food came from a little place in town called Torre Cafe, where the breakfast sandwich is indeed NEXT LEVEL. Fragrant rosemary bun. Ham or sausage or bacon. Perfectly scrambled egg. Melty cheese. Fresh tomato. Homemade pesto. A moment of silence for this culinary masterpiece that saw me through many a rough day. Pair it with a lovely handcrafted latte from this Italian gem of a cafe and all worries seemed to fade into a meaningless, faraway cloud. 

Fast forward to recent months—being pregnant with hyperemesis gravidarum in the first trimester. This means being incredibly nauseous ALWAYS which in turn means being hungry ALL THE TIME. When I could eat, I was SO HUNGRY. Breakfast sandwiches—even those filled with gluten, my usual arch nemesis, became very IMPORTANT. Full of satisfying carbs and protein—they helped me survive until reaching the 2nd trimester. Thank you, Starbucks and Crusin’ Coffee. You fairy godmothers. 

So here I am. Always craving the practically compact, yet delicious breakfast sandwich. I know I do better sans gluten in my life, and even in the Pacific Mecca of gluten free living, I haven’t been able to source a gluten free English muffin. 

SO WHY NOT ATTEMPT MY OWN, was my optimistic yet deluded thinking. Armed with 4 English muffin rings I received for Christmas (as I let my family know of my recent passion) and an online recipe that had over a dozen positive reviews, Toddler and I began yesterday, as I said, at 4pm. 

My usual style of baking these days is as follows: wet ingredients, dry ingredients, mix, dump, bake, eat. EASY. SIMPLE. 

And it started out easy. Mix dry ingredients together. Toddler and I are whizzing through this part—MERE CHILD’S PLAY. 

Boil milk and oil together—Ok, I have to do this part. And make sure Toddler doesn’t whisk all the dry stuff out of the bowl in her enthusiasm for the craft. 

Pour boiled mixture in with dry ingredients. Another mama-only activity. Toddler has moved on to other bigger things. I now must have eyes in the back of my head while I try not to scald myself with the boiling milk. Let sit for 20 minutes. 

Ooops, have made the water for the yeast and sugar mix TOO hot. Must let cool off. I run around after Toddler—it’s obviously time to play Grocery Store. I try not to think about the growing stack dishes in the sink. Or how the time on the clock is sped up to H.G. Wells’ The Time Machine speeds. 

Water now (hopefully) cool enough to add yeast and sugar. Wait another 15 minutes. Toddler asks nicely that I help put the Grocery Store back together so she can dump all items in her TJ Maxx paper bag. Must attend. Dishes continue to pile up, because that’s the kind of person I am. 

FINALLY add yeast mixture to flour-milk mixture. LET RISE FOR 30 MINUTES. It is completely after 5:15pm now and the thought finally enters my brain that oh, we are not having breakfast sandwiches for dinner. I let this go, although not gracefully, and search in my heart for what else WE COULD POSSIBLY HAVE FOR DINNER. I am sitting on a kitchen chair at this point, exhausted by my endeavors and making sure that Toddler doesn’t pull another kitchen chair over on herself or up to a counter and get burned or something. The dishes in the sink are now spilling over on the counter and I am ignoring their existence. 

Finally, I preheat the oven and oil up the English muffin rings and heat up a skillet. THIS IS IT. I add in two egg whites as the last of the ingredients and we are at last READY. This batter is really impressive. Hope is RISING. I am determined to see this process through, even though Toddler and I have each officially entered the Witching Hour, being hungry and grumpy coupled with not enough outdoor time. 

I dump the dough into the rings in the skillet and try to wait. Then Toddler pinches her pinkie in the little washer/dryer toy and needs my immediate nursing skills and the fox ice pack from the freezer. We sit on the floor and I do my best to comfort and soothe. Aware of time passing and my muffins probably needing to be flipped at this point, I notice from my position on the floor, that there is SMOKE rising from my skillet. Not a lot of smoke, just enough to make me freak out a little. I scramble to my feet, which takes a lot of effort given my with-child-ness, amidst a sobbing, clinging child. Uttering a choice word, I flip over the molds with not a lot of aplomb, and behold, MY MUFFINS ARE BURNED. 

All I can do is stare. 

It is 5:37pm. I have a whole bowl of batter waiting. The oven is ready to go. My child is staring up at me with tear-filled eyes and a sore finger. I haven’t decided what to make for our actual dinner, let alone started it. I suddenly feel bone-tired. The desire for silence, chocolate, and a nice, cozy murder show are suddenly very strong. 

AND YET HERE WE ARE. 

So I make some very quick decisions, influenced by my worsening attitude (“ENGLISH MUFFINS ARE STUPID ANYWAY”) and growing hunger and upset child. I use the last two ring molds in another pan, as the first pan has BLACK BURN MARKS. I start some boxed mac and cheese. I get my poor little love in her booster chair with some books and some water. I proceed to burn the last two muffins AGAIN because apparently I didn’t learn the first time. I finally am able to bestow the four sad muffins into the waiting oven and can focus on my mac and cheese. I ask Toddler if she wants blueberries. She says yes and dumps some on the floor. I keep my cool, against all odds. She eats the mac and cheese and tuna. Grim-faced, I throw the rest of the batter in a plastic bag and dump it in the freezer like one of the bodies from my murder shows so I don’t have to think about it for a while. I manage to get the muffins out of the oven without further incident and ignore their mocking presence while we get on with our evening routine. 

We all survived, I am happy to report. 

We even managed to make it to lunch today, when Toddler asked for some of the Muffins we made yesterday. I pull the least offensively burned one out, and split it in half. IT IS NOT BAD. I toast one half while she nibbles on the other. THE FLAVOR IS ACTUALLY REALLY GOOD. Texture not bad either! Oh yes, still burned a bit but TASTY. I mean, Toddler is eating it! 

So….SUCCESS! 

Will I ever attempt English muffins again, you ask? 

It is too soon to know for sure BUT this I do know: 

Definitely not at 4pm. 

Definitely not then. 

Here is the link to the delicious recipe: https://gluten-free-bread.org/step-by-step-to-the-best-gluten-free-english-muffins. May your luck and timing be WISER than mine!

When Going Gluten Free isn’t Enough; Or, The Joys and Thrills of Pregnancy

“‘Ron, why don’t some people like breakfast food?’

‘Because people are idiots, Leslie.’” 

-Parks and Rec

People GET gluten free these days. At least here in the Pacific Northwest. And it’s great! It’s taken years and years, but finally the heads of loved ones and restaurants don’t spin in confusion and a deep personal sadness when you have to decline Great Aunt Phyllis’ famous chocolate cake or ask for a bun-less hamburger. Whew. GLUTEN FREE PEOPLE ARE FINALLY BEGINNING TO BE ACCEPTED, EVEN IF WE ARE NOT UNDERSTOOD. I call that a win. 

I have dabbled in gluten free living over the past 6 years, from straight-up elimination dieting to choosing the steadily-more-palatable-but-still-not-exactly-nutritious-processed gluten free items because I know I SHOULD. Last summer, my acupuncturist and a horrible gut and body ache after part of a breakfast burrito convinced me to give gluten a MISS until further notice. I don’t have celiac, but I do feel much better about life in general when I don’t eat gluten, leading me to strongly suspect that I have a non-celiac gluten sensitivity. I’m sure it’s snuck in here and there, but for the most part I’ve been pretty good at avoiding it. I did sneak a couple bites of B’s crisp bean burrito from Taco Time because those things are LIFE and I am pregnant and achy everywhere ANYWAY. 

Speaking of PREGNANCY, I have had to give up other things than just gluten. And I’m not even talking about the typical alcohol, soft cheeses, processed lunch meats, etc. I mean, whatever. I am looking FORWARD SO MUCH to a cold deli sandwich once the Gummy Bear arrives. Like, I can’t even say. But I’m talking about things that no pregnant woman should even have to think about giving up. LIKE…SUGAR. 

I love SUGAR. 

IN ALL FORMS. 

I love cake, pie, cookies, doughnuts, brownies, blondies, candy. I love baking cake, pie, cookies, doughnuts, brownies, blondies. Haven’t really delved into candy, because that stuff is FINICKY. Also I need a candy thermometer. I also love all the sugar in condiments (you know ketchup is MOSTLY sugary tomato paste, right?) and on top of cereals (oatmeal without brown sugar? Cheerios without white sugar?) and in granola bars and in fancy coffee drinks. Even more than gluten, sugar in SOME SWEET FORM OF GOODNESS is in everything. Of course, I’ve been using more “natural” sugars the past few years, like honey, maple syrup, and coconut sugar. Because did I mention elimination diets? And I read too much online? I have worked with dates for sweetness before, and can I just say, my IBS did NOT appreciate those particular efforts. 

Anyway, GUESS WHAT. Natural sugars? STILL SUGARS. Well, crap. 

All this to say, I KNOW I feel better with less sugar in my life. My skin clears up, my lingering nasal congestion gets easier, all other foods start to taste better. So when faced with a couple of non-urgent but annoying health conundrums during pregnancy, I knew it was TIME. Time to give up my favorite pastime. My favorite way to TREAT MY SELF. 

For those of you who worry about the Gummy Bear*, I haven’t given up ALL sugar—still eating fruits and carbs and even the granola bars I keep in my purse for emergencies. I have to keep from going completely insane during pregnancy, and she needs a wide range of foods. I have also discovered sugar-free, dairy-free ice cream (oh yes, still don’t do straight-up milk or ice cream) and Stevia-sweetened root beer for those times when I ABSOLUTELY NEED SOMETHING SWEET OR I WILL GO POSTAL. 

It’s now been about 5 weeks, and that first week was NOT COOL. But I am a survivor, my friends. It hasn’t stopped me from gazing longingly and lovingly at the bag of Reese’s Pieces a fellow mom-to-be was eating during one of our birthing classes, or at the gf chocolate cereal waiting patiently in my pantry. My doctor did say that chocolate was still ok to eat and so I got some very dark chocolate (even though I really just want milk chocolate, if I’m honest) with a low sugar content, and I don’t even eat the full serving size, but that has helped with my brain a little, for which we’re ALL VERY THANKFUL. 

So that’s how pregnancy is going. Although this doesn’t even begin to cover other glorious topics like acid reflux (IT’S A SERIOUS TOPIC, COMRADES), needing the bathroom at all times, shortness of breath, trying to remember if I took my prenatal, dropping and bumping into everything, and wondering if moving from my couch is even THAT necessary. Of course the most glorious thing of all is feeling the Gummy Bear kick and move, and this is me actually not even being sarcastic. Feeling her move and squirm makes all these other things so worth it, from the diet changes to the acid reflux to the lack of sleep to the extra aches and pains. Like I seriously forget how uncomfortable I am when she starts doing the Gifford Baby Rhumba and I smile like an idiot. Yesterday, we felt her head about to poke out of my belly like the creature in Alien and B and I both lost it. In the best way, of course. 

So while we dream about chocolate peanut butter pie and coconut mochas, pass the Stevia and the fish oil and the cucumber slices for me and the Gummy Bear. Although not all together-that would just be gross. 

*Goodness me-I just realized our nickname for our baby is essentially SUGAR. I told you sugar is everywhere. 

There is a baby in there, I promise. Also, that's the beautiful cradle my grandpa made!

The remnants of my sugar-free AND delicious breakfast. 

How many water containers does a pregnant woman need? DON'T ASK.

While We’re Waiting, Let’s Make Pancakes

I like to use 'I Can't Believe it's Not Butter' on my toast in the morning, because sometimes when I eat breakfast, I like to be incredulous. How was breakfast? Unbelievable. 

-Demetri Martin, comedian

When they got out on land, they saw a charcoal fire in place, with fish laid out on it, and bread. Jesus said to them, “Bring some of the fish that you have just caught.” So Simon Peter went aboard and hauled the net ashore, full of large fish, 153 of them. And although there were so many, the net was not torn. Jesus said to them, “Come and have breakfast.” Now none of the disciples dared ask him, “Who are you?” They knew it was the Lord.

John 21:9-12

The pure goodness of pancake joy. 

I’m going to be honest with you guys. It’s been a long season of waiting. Just standing around, well, lying around, to be even more honest. Waiting and longing and hoping and trying for physical wellness and wholeness. It feels like I’m waiting in the dark, and I am waiting for someone to flip the switch. In the middle of the long waiting, Ben and I try new things. We continue doing the good things, even though we can’t see results. We try to rest in the eye of our storms. We hang out with our family and friends. We listen to good music and watch good shows and make good food and go on good walks together. So we survive and strive and press forward even though our way is often veiled. 

Speaking of food (easily distracted over here), breakfast is definitely one of the good things. It's one of my all-time favorite times of the day and of LIFE. Breakfast food IS life, really. Think about it. All of the really good foods are contained under the Banner of Breakfast.

Bacon. Coffee. Pancakes. Waffles. TOAST. Hashbrowns. Omelettes. MIMOSAS. Doughnuts. Cereal. Cinnamon rolls. French toast. 

One evening not that long ago, I was searching the cupboards for some much-needed dinner inspiration, as we all do. I happened upon a half-used box of gluten-free pancake mix and thought YES. It’s been too long since I had pancakes in my life. I made a Smoothie Surprise (which is code for clean out the fridge and freezer and throw it in the blender and see what happens) and mixed up the batter. I married a genius, and he literally brought the bacon home to go with our breakfast feast. We slathered our pancakes with ricotta cheese and strawberry jam (highly recommend…we’ve been doing this on ALL the toast as of late) and peanut butter and maple syrup. Breakfast bliss, I tell you. 

So what does this have to do with waiting? Well, we still have to do stuff while we wait. Even while we wait and hope, we can still do things we love and make delicious food and be with those we love. We can still have pancakes. When we continue to move forward even in the dark, we will be strengthened and helped and encouraged. Maybe what we’re waiting for is hindering what we can do right now. In that case, we must find new ways and new things to love and do and make. I can’t run right now. But I can walk or ride my stationary bike. I can’t make cookies the way I used to. But I can figure out a new way to bake and create sweets. 

The disciples knew about waiting, too. About living and waiting and hoping and pressing forward. After the resurrection of Jesus, after he appeared to his disciples, Peter still needed to do something, to fill his time, or even to feel normal after all these mind-boggling events. And he went back to what he knew best—fishing. And of course, he and his friends didn’t catch anything, didn’t have anything to show for their efforts, as is so often the case with waiting. And what does Jesus do after this long night? He gives them not only a full catch of fish, but breakfast. Jesus cares about all our needs—He knows that not only do we need breakfast, we also need him to come and make all things right again. 

Jesus could have provided that full catch in the middle of the night, when Peter and his buddies were trying so hard. But by waiting, the disciples were filled with so much more than a hot meal, weren’t they? This whole experience confirmed who Jesus was—they didn’t need to ask who it was on the beach: “they knew it was the Lord.” And this is what we need in our lives, in all the mystery and the sorrow and the sudden joys—to know that it is the Lord who provides, who loves us enough to be with us. It is the Lord who makes our meals communion, who uses something as daily as our daily bread to reveal more of himself. While we wait, let’s look for him on the shore, trusting him to provide and sustain us in all things. 

For the Time Being

Well, gentle readers. Here we are. 

It’s now been two months and almost a week since I quit my job as Regaled Mammogram Aide and became a Full Time Well I’m Not Sure What. But who’s counting? The Yowling Beast of fibromyalgia has claimed my full attention, for the time being. FOR THE TIME BEING. I must insist upon this point. Not only to you, dear readers, but to myself as well. 

I’ve been employed pretty much since basically Forever, with a few bouts and weeks of non-employment. There was this one time in 2008 where I was without a job for ONE MONTH, and there was this other time in 2011 where I was seeking work FOR SIX MONTHS, and I nearly died. I’m not a workaholic, mind you (as soon as I clock out…SARAH OUT! drop mic). I just like having something mildly productive to do and have something to show for the day. Oh, and the paychecks are good too. I like to eat. But more on that later. 

All this to say, the past couple months have been…weird. 

I am not kidding you when I say it took me a solid THREE WEEKS to calm down after my last day of work. Like I could finally relax and accept all this TIME as my own. And allow it to be a good thing. 

You see, it took me a looooong time to accept the need to quit my job. As my long-suffering and handsome spouse can attest. I didn’t want to GIVE IN. Accept defeat. I’d been fighting through the pains, the fatigue, the brain fog, the lack of good times with friends and family for sooooo long that I was determined to JUST KEEP GOING. Stick it to the man. Pull myself along. Prove to myself, and to those around me, that I am STRONG ENOUGH and GOOD ENOUGH and all these health concerns can just shove it. 

But regardless of the rest, the exercise, the bouts of physical therapy, the madness of trying out new medicines like swimsuits in January, the countless doctor’s visits and subsequent disappointments, the different diets, the fevered research on the internet and the library, the scaling back of activities and commitments, procedures and recovery times, I just couldn’t. Not anymore. One more thing had to give, and that was my….JOB. SAY IT AIN’T SO. 

Accepting the ever-pressing need to slow down even more and become a full time Stay at Home Person was hard enough. But accepting others’ reactions was TRICKY. Well-meaning people shared their very real concerns about this decision. This was a huge thing, after all, and there was potential to be concerned. Would I ever leave the couch after this? I still struggle with those worries, because of course I’d already had them myself.  And I’ll be honest, there have been a lot of days since then that I haven’t left the couch or the house. Because I’m chronically in pain. These days have crushed me more than the actual pain, the actual fatigue. Because I get afraid that my whole life will become not leaving the couch. Really afraid. 

So in the past couple months, I’ve watched a lot of tv from my couch, yes. Bravo for the Property Brothers. I cite them for not going clinically insane. But! I’ve also read a LOT. Still working on my BBC Top 100 Novels project. I read Dune by Frank Herbert this summer. That is a whole other post, my friend. A whole other post. Like the Seven Labors of Hercules, I labored my way through The Goldfinch by Donna Tartt (author of The Secret History which I DO LOVE). Cannot resist side note here: Seriously, Pulitzer Prize Committee? I also read The Buried Giant by Kazuo Ishiguru, which made me cry and feel all the feels. I even read some NON-FICTION, which should come as a surprise to all of us. Reread some Frederick Buechner, which is always refreshing, and For the Love by Jen Hatmaker, deliciously hilarious and thought-provoking. 

My house is also a little more organized. I couldn’t help it. I had more time to see what needed doing. I went through books and clothes and kitchen things and donated and consigned a TON. Golly, that felt good. And I had time to decide I needed to do a detox and elimination program, which Ben and I both currently doing. Day 5, people. Day 5. Green smoothies galore. So far, nothing to report but many dirtied dishes, new and very tasty cooking adventures (chicken stock from scratch?! What are you serious??) and questionable bathroom times. But it is ONLY Day 5 so far. Hold fast. 

Insert Necessary Food Thoughts Here. Another thing that the Fibro Beast has taken is my LOOSE PAIR OF JEANS THAT I SAVE FOR EMERGENCIES. Take my gluten and dairy? Whatever. Make me question conventional cleaning and beauty products? I don’t even care anymore. Make me go without coffee for this cleanse? I do care, but WHAT MUST BE MUST BE. But MY EMERGENCY JEANS??? This is CRUEL AND UNUSUAL PUNISHMENT. I accept that I now must make up REASONS to move about, and I DO. Currently able to “exercise” (or as I say, GENTLY MOVE) more than I ever have with this blasted condition. More days than not, you can find me huffing on my stationary bike or getting lapped at the track by the Santa Claus with the huge headphones. And now I’m doing this freaking CLEANSE, FIBRO BEAST. Why take my fat pants? I am about to send a strongly worded letter. I can’t just leave the house in yoga pants ALL THE TIME. Sometimes even I need to look presentable. And trying to walk around in jeans that feel like a denim Iron Maiden is not helping matters any, socially or spiritually. 

So there you have it. The past couple months in a sort of nutshell. But not cashew or peanut—those are NOT on the List for my detox. I didn’t even get to reading through Ephesians and Colossians and remembering the Gospel all over again, and how it’s true now, it’s true for my chronic pain self, and for everyone. I didn’t get to having my friends and family over, who saved me from myself time and time again. Where would we be without Bachelor in Paradise nights, or evenings spent discussing what actors from which British detective shows were in THIS OTHER THING, or hot afternoons on the cool porch talking about life, or delicious plum cobblers dropped off after we had to put the family kitty down? What I’m trying to say is that even though the past months have been hard in every way I expected, it’s been full of surprising graces? I’m looking at you, everyone in my life. I’m looking at you, and I thank you. And the Property Brothers and Tyra Banks and Gordon Ramsay. 

This is my life now. 

I found this gem of a dedication in a used bookstore Agatha Christie novel, and that's why I bought it. 

Sometimes I amaze even myself with my excellent taste. 

You know that's watermelon simple syrup for gin and tonics, right? 

There was this one time we took my niece to the sand castle competition  That's Jaws, of course. 

Dang right I took a picture of a squirrel at the track. Dang right. 

A Very Hard Thing

I had a really good thought today. This afternoon, I was in that dangerous place of succumbing to what I believe Joy the Baker calls the Sunday Afternoon Blues-that spot of feeling down because the weekend is ending, the work week is looming, and there’s just so much to do that another TV marathon seems the only option. So I pulled out my pumpkin coffeecake recipe and got to work. I pulled out my coconut oil, my rice flour, my local honey. I put my coffee grinder to good use-ground flax seeds mixed with warm water make a wonderful egg substitute. In the middle of melting oil and mixing dry ingredients, I realized that I was doing it. I was doing A Very Hard Thing without even thinking about it.

Let me back up a little.

Back in July, my results for food allergy testing came in, and I was diagnosed with dairy, egg, and wheat allergies, as well as bananas and pineapples. For this girl who loves food, who heartily believes baking is a perfect joy in this world, the news was heart-wrenching. While nice to finally have an answer to some health issues I’ve had, this sort of answer wsasn’t exactly welcomed. It came over me in stages what having such allergies meant, and I found myself saying goodbye to favorite foods: butter, milk, omelets, baked goods, Nutella, cheese, sour cream, cream cheese, alfredo sauce, half and half, etc. I went through a kind of mourning, actually. But I mustered up the courage to research what to eat, new meals, new ways of eating, and working at making these new foods delicious.

Back to the present.

This afternoon, I was going about my daily life and indulging in one of my all-time favorite things: baking. I didn’t stop to think about what I’d lost in not being able to use “real” flour, “real” butter. It felt so good to realize that this new way of doing things, of doing life, is my new normal. It feels normal and easy to reach for once-foreign ingredients like coconut oil and rice flour. It’s such a sigh of relief to be satisfied with how these new ingredients taste. My very taste buds have changed. This feels really good. Four months ago, baking with these ingredients would have been daunting, even emotional. But today, this Once Very Hard Thing turned out to not be so hard after all.

Apparently, it can take the body months to heal from years of food allergies. I can’t say that all the changes have made life perfect or my body completely happy. But today’s realization was a major triumph and a huge step in the right direction. In seeing that one of my favorite things can still be enjoyed, just in a different way, and with a lot more coconut oil.

Taste and See

I have identified myself as a foodie for some time, finding great joy and comfort in mashed potatoes and baked chicken. I believe with all my heart in the power of a latte and a well-timed cookie. So when Ben and I went on a diet last month,  it was tough. Really tough. But so good, at the same time. We knocked out everything but meat, vegetables, nuts, and some dairy. Oh, and rice cakes. LOTS OF RICE CAKES. I  missed my coffee. But I hadn’t felt that connected to my food in years. I hadn’t really tasted food in so long. When’s the last time you really tasted your food? That’s what I thought. I could weep when I bite into a really ripe peach, the juice dotting my chin in a sort of explosive food confetti. I heave sighs of relief when I get that first sip of either crappy work coffee or a perfectly steamed, perfectly brewed latte. I offer up a true prayer, maybe some of the truest prayers I’ve ever prayed, when I enjoy dinner with my husband in our deep companionship or a slap-stick dinner with true friends. Food opens us up--it satisfies our first needs. Eat and be filled, so you can be filled with the goodness of the Lord. Drink and be quenched so you can be filled with the goodness of whatever company you find yourself in, whether you’re alone or with your best friend or your favorite family member. If your food is crappy, your conversation will probably suffer. I don’t know if that’s true, but it sounds right. Well, I suppose you could get by for a while, but over time, your body will start to complain and you won’t be able to enjoy much of anything.

It’s unnatural to not care about food. I think we all do, really, deep down. Why else are there so many  sad and frustrated people who struggle with weight and self-image? We have lost our true relationship with food. We are disconnected. So we grab whatever’s there, whatever’s available, whatever we don’t have to cook ourselves. Chesterton described the polygamist as not actually enjoying sex too much; rather he has lost his appreciation for sex by having many lovers, forgetting how it was meant to be enjoyed. This is true of food, too. And wouldn't you know that of course, I found a renewed appreciation of food in a crazy diet by fasting from what I thought I wanted.

Oh yes! You bet I sat on the couch and cried. I laid in bed and cried, thinking of giving up my bread, my peanut butter, my pasta, my coffee, my cookies, my chocolate, the things that I used for comfort during the day, and my whole life, really. Any day is filled with any number of vexations, of griefs, of confusions. Food is such a constant. I know exactly how that chocolate in my desk drawer will taste, even though I have no idea what’s waiting for me in the next hour. I know exactly how much comfort exists in a big bowl of pasta and alfredo sauce after a long day…like snuggling deep into a pile of blankets fresh from the dryer. Here is the kicker…that is GOOD. In itself, food is meant as a huge present from our Creator. Proverbs advises to give wine to those in bitter distress. Our Lord knows we are but dust. He knows we need good food when we wake up, in the middle of our work day, after a long day of working. Maybe He even knows we need a nice cup of hot chocolate before bed sometimes. He is a good God, a good Father. He knows what we need before we need it, after all.

Sadly, even our relationship with food, one that God meant to be good and full of satisfaction, I believe, was tainted by the Fall. The final rip from relationship from God on that fateful day was one of food, wasn’t it? When Eve opened her mouth and sank her teeth into what was forbidden; when Adam tasted what was not meant for him, all was lost. They wanted the fruit because they were told not to have it, because it was the means to an end, to power, to knowledge, not because they wanted it for pleasure, for enjoying it in the moment, like how presents from God are meant to be received. This is probably why diets usually don’t work. Our motivations matter to God, and to ourselves. God had not meant them to taste this fruit because it was not good for them. He wasn’t being a big meanie. He was only thinking of their good. Just like what I tell my body when it wants not just a cookie, but seventeen.

I can only imagine what that fruit tasted like. Did it taste good going down, like how half a pan of brownies tastes, or a half-pound cheeseburger? Or did that first bite confirm everything God had told them about it? Did it leave a small round lump in the pit of their stomach, or just too full like after Thanksgiving with all the fixings? Did they lean against the tree it came from and puke their guts out in sorrow, like a repentant bulimic? Did they feel dirty and greasy all over, like they’d rubbed a bacon maple bar all over their faces? And the final terrible question I want to ask, but maybe not want to know the answer to, is…did they care? Did they sit in the satisfied stuffed stupor of the glutton with smeared egg on their faces, or were they  in mourning right away for what they had done to their bodies, to their minds?  Did Adam and Eve feel all their relationships, with God and themselves and their bodies, break right away? Or were they so dead and full inside they couldn’t feel at all? And what did God think when He saw them partake and eat? Did He feel a lightening bolt of sorrow in His chest, a plunging sorrow in His belly? Did He feel it before He saw it? He must have felt the disconnection right away, the end of what had been so precious, that communion as they walked in the cool of the day together.

But even in food, there is redemption, isn’t there? Even in that terrible ironic Fall, mirroring our season of autumn, with the promise of summer dying and only a hard winter to come, God Himself made clothes for them. He set them to work, to make their own food, to work the land with their own hands. I know that most people see that as a punishment, and I suppose it was in part, and maybe the satisfaction I feel in preparing a meal after a long day is part of the Fall lingering to this day, but I don’t really think so. I think God provided this small joy in the middle of great sorrow. To work something good out of something so evil. We can still work with our hands and make something good, something akin to that old communion our ancestors had in the Garden with our God, something like walking about in the cool of the day. Perhaps they walked with cold glasses of lemonade or a corndog dipped in mustard. People talk about real things over food, and I wouldn’t be surprised if this grand tradition started in the Garden in the beginning.

In the meantime, we still have broken relationships with food, don’t we? Our bodies rebel, weakened by the Fall and by heredity and by environment, and any other number of reasons. Too many spices give us heartburn and dairy gives us flem and too many treats at Christmas give us a head-cold in January. Worse, we crave what is bad for us, either the wrong foods altogether or our-of-control portion size. Especially in this Western world,  I think we must temper our attitudes and our appetites with thanks. Whatever you do, said Paul to the Colossians, in word or deed, do everything in the name of the Lord Jesus, giving thanks. Giving thanks for our food and our drink, our daily communion with our Father, will mend both our hearts and bodies. Only then can we truly taste our food, our daily gift of manna from God. Only then will we will taste and see that the Lord is good, whatever we choose to eat. Paul also said not to let anyone judge you for what you eat or drink, for the substance belongs to Christ. Realizing, for the first time in my life, that Christ cares about what I eat, makes every meal communion, every bite of bread sacred, every sip of water holy.