Dairy turns me into a bloated whoopie cushion on legs. Beef presses my autoimmune’s buttons. Gluten makes my skin feel as silky soft as sandpaper. Apples, whole almonds and chocolate make me, well, we don’t know each other well enough for that kind of talk. As for nightshades, I have my suspicions. I don’t even want to talk about wine.
When I first found out I had food allergies, I thought surely I’m on an episode of Punk’d. So what if it was 2012 and Punk’d, much like Ashton’s obnoxious trucker hats, was long over. I was still expecting Ashton to jump out from behind the curtain, with camera crew in tow, to tell me it was all a big joke and hand me an enormous piece of extra velvety red velvet cake. But nope, there was no Ashton and no cake, just a plate full of gluten-free shit pie. This news made me grieve. And it went a little something like this:
- Denial - I know I can’t eat dairy but I can eat this cheese. This is locally handcrafted raw cheddar made from the milk of well-adjusted cows who have a Bachelor’s in Herbology and are friends with fairies. It’s artisanal and, Goddammit, artisanal means something! Just look at it, it has the word “anal” in it, which is exactly how I want everyone who touches this cheese to be.
- Anger - Why don’t you just take all of the Kerrygold in the house and shove it down your throat in front of me, asshole! Better yet, make me feed it to you while you lounge on a cloud of Quark with a smug expression on your face. You are dead to me.
- Bargaining - If I can just eat the good bread, not the crappy grocery store stuff, I will immediately stop making fun of people with designer illnesses like candida and gingivitis.
- Depression - I’m just going to sit here and listen to Red Red Wine all afternoon.
- Acceptance - I’ll have the kale.
It wasn’t pretty but grieving helped me move on from 21 day dry-aged steak with blue cheese crumbles to kale. It opened up my world to alterna flours and a million recipes that I would have never tried. And more kale, which I’m sure is a bandwagon that papa Ashton has already jumped on, cultivating his own brand of kalephilia. At the very least I can see him buffing his sixpack with a few leaves of lacinato while grieving over the irrelevance of his beloved trucker hats. Don’t worry Ashton, you’ll come out of this better accessorized.