The Body of . . .Oops! Gluten Free in the World of Church

If you follow my adventures within and beyond church, you already know I can go from zero to gazillion mph when it comes to discussing gluten-free living.

Secular summation: Why are GF foods so needlessly expensive? 

Sacramental summation: Why is offering GF Communion so freakin' difficult?

I stripped gluten from my diet several years ago. A nutritionist thought doing so would reduce my fibromyalgia pain. I rolled my eyes when she trotted out the suggestion. 

"Isn't gluten free the new bright shiny?"

Celiac disease had recently become the diagnosis du jour and I already knew I didn't have that. She provided links to articles in credible journals. Giving up wheat, rye, and barley seemed easy enough. It was and within 72 hours my pain level had dropped a stunning 80-ish percent. 

I became more careful about eating anything with gluten. It was expensive at first because GF foods, especially those made under certified gluten free manufacturing processes are pricey. That was relatively easy for me to work around because I rock at cooking. 

What's wasn't and still isn't so easy is getting GF Eucharist, especially at Roman Catholic churches. Either GF hosts aren't available or arranging to receive them is brutally cumbersome or actually receiving them can be downright humiliating. 

No joke, I attended a church where those receiving GF Eucharist were told to go to the back of the bus line to wait until everyone else was served. This was allegedly easier . . . for the deacon who also made no attempt to disguise his exasperation with the situation. I no longer attend that church. And yes, I was too weary to lift that aggravation up to the Lord or lay it at the foot of the Cross.

Last year I flat-out gave up. When not receiving Communion became too spiritually painful, I decided to opt for physical pain. Impressively white martyr-ish, eh? Not really. 

Turns out a small piece keeps the fibro pain down to a manageable 2-3 on a scale of ten. Tolerable since my normal pain level runs at 5-6 on any given day of goofy barometric pressure changes.

The next challenge became instructing clergy to offer a smaller piece of Eucharist, something routinely done so nursing home communicants don't choke to death on Jesus. But this, too, has proven to be a hassle at times. But it's not a hassle at St. Mark's Evangelical Lutheran Church in Baltimore.

I especially love the swift, heartfelt mea culpa Pastor Dale Dusman delivers if he forgets to break what has already broken for us. Last Sunday's sounded like this: "The Body of . . . oops!"  

We both cracked up laughing at the altar rail and thanks to the endorphin boost, I was (relatively) pain-free for the rest of the day.

Introducing Wheelie Accessible Cooking

Busy people always have time to do more, right? Apparently. 

Check out Ruth Harrigan's new blog, Wheelie Accessible Cooking. The tag line will give you a sense of the intended tone, "preparing simple meals without causing havoc or further injury." 

Ruth blogs about faith, disability, and advocacy at Wheelie Catholic. Now she's aggregating information about "adaptive cooking" on Wheelie Accessible Cooking.

If you've been reading my blog for a while, you know I was Ruth's personal aide for years. Those years included lots of cooking and cleaning by me; carping about social injustice by both of us.*   

Now add to that my rarely-written-about but often moaned-about-in-private fibromyalgia and it made sense to us for me to join her in this endeavor. Check out my first post, Cooking under the influence . . . of fibromyalgia to see what I mean. 

In other news, I finally finished the church social media book and it's being copy edited. I'll announce the title and tell you about how we chose it in another post. It's a great story about the total blessing of working ecumenically.

*You can revisit all that by searching Life as a Personal Aide posts. 

An Author's Life: Does This Manuscript Make Me Look Fat?

Yeah, I have "food issues."  It's something I discovered after getting into 12-step recovery for something(s) else.  Call it the Whac-A-Mole theory of addiction. Never did I want to eat so much for no good reason as when I finally decided to stop [fill in blank].

When it comes to food, which is impossible to quit altogether, things really get dicey when there really is an alleged good reason for indiscriminate, mindless over-eating to self-soothe. Writing a book is one of those bogus good reasons. I'm now two-thirds and five pounds into this latest effort.

I am such a liar.

Truth be told,  I'm only slightly over one-third done with this manuscript and more like eight pounds heavier. Plus, I've restored caffeinated coffee to my writing regimen. At this rate, I'll be ready for detox and a new wardrobe by January.

You can help by keeping me in prayer . . . and sending dark chocolate.

Shabbot Slalom

sla · lom (noun)

any winding or zigzag course marked by obstacles or barriers

sla · lom (verb)

to follow a course with many twists and turns

This is not the first week I'm muttering "Shabbot slalom" to myself.  By 1:00 this afternoon, I felt like I was hurtling through an obstacle course on the way to Sabbath...peace? Yet another week when I think I might have to observe (if I could dare call it that) Sabbath from sundown on Saturday to sundown on Sunday, rather than starting at sundown tonight, Friday.

I suppose it could be worse, or at least more complicated. 

If I were an uber-observant Jew, I'd have to get everything prepared before sundown. I am not uber-observant (anything), but each Thursday I start feeling a certain urgency around making sure my apartment is clean, laundry has been done, and there's enough food for the weekend. (Do not ask how I define "enough food.") 

I have my Jewish mother to thank for this deeply embedded pattern because this went on in our home when I was growing up. Thursday was house cleaning, laundry, ironing, and food shopping day. It was also the day my mother went to The Beauty Parlor and the day I generally got yelled at to clean my already impeccably tidy room.  

On Friday night, usually after sundown, we'd light Sabbath candles, recite prayers, and tuck into something of the fish persuasion before schlepping off to synagogue. Yes, fish on Fridays in our Jewish home, which is probably why I start hankering for sushi by 4:00 pm on Fridays.  Go figure. Go...fish?

Powerlessness

The label said, "Gluten Free." 

I honestly didn't realize how quickly

I'd become powerless over plantain chips 

and my life would become

(more) unmanageable as a consequence.

Apartment Living: The Joy of Cooking

My return to apartment living continues. Almost every week provides an encounter with les temps perdu. This week's engagement with memory was positively Proustian, although baked goods were not involved.

Earlier this week, I stood in the hallway and wondered if I was sniffing something vindaloo or saagwala. Hard to tell through the dominant smell of broiled steak. Low notes of something burning. Breakfast-for-dinner toast? Pizza-saturated cardboard near the garbage chute?

By cracky, I can remember when the olfactory options for New York City apartment hallways were limited to pot roast, corned beef and cabbage, and spaghetti sauce ─ or what the cognescenti call gravy. Being slammed with one or all of these aromas depended on location, location, location. Was the building in Manhattan or one of the provinces? Was the Manhattan building above or below 14th street?* These distinctions made a difference. Then.

Now I live in Baltimore and the cooking aromas in this apartment building's hallways are as richly varied as its residents. Such abundance!


* Before Soho was invented, uptown began at 14th street.

Interfaith Reconciliation Takes a Step...

Interfaith Reconciliation
takes a step
forward or back or both.

I can find five (5) things that are
beyond wrong
with this product and its promotion.
How many can you find?

As Thanksgiving 2010 Approaches . . .

As Thanksgiving Day approaches, I fondly recall the first parish-based ministry I volunteered to lead: the Comfort Food ministry. Can't remember if it was always called that, but that's what we called it when I stepped up to the plate ─ pun shamelessly intended.

It was a food bank of sorts, developed for parishioners in distress. Comfort Food ministers kept the parish freezer stocked with home-cooked dinners. Those in our healthcare, bereavement and Elizabeth ministries took these good-to-go meals with them to parishioners as needed.

It was generally known that anyone could take a meal; generally understood that the rationale for doing so was more dire than, "I'm tired of pizza delivery and the same goes double for Chinese take-out."

Thanksgiving was always somewhat challenging. Despite extraordinarily "robust" levels of academic achievement, parishioners needed weekly reminders about dropping off whole, uncooked and frozen turkeys, as in: Don't do this! Bulletin blurbs became increasingly less gentle by the 4th Sunday of Advent.

Although I rued this annual situation, as well as the inevitability of baked ziti, I had more pressing gustatory concerns.

And so it came to pass that I began my tenure as head of the Comfort Food ministry proclaiming: No meal shall ever be glued together with cream-of-anything soup.

I never faced any overt push-back from the casserole crowd. Perhaps I imagined hearing a huge sigh of relief ─ other than mine.

Twitter Brings Out the Best

Last night after Compline with the Virtual Abbey, I had a lively exchange with a few community members about the glories of mayonnaise. (Also broccoli, but never mind about that.)

I specified Hellmann's Real Mayonnaise, of course. Is there any other kind? Really, there isn't. I consider store-branded mayonnaise more life-threatening than non-FDA approved generic drugs from India. As for Miracle Whip, definitely not mayonnaise. It's even labeled "dressing," so I've never understood why anyone would try passing it off as anything else. (Insert insensitive and inappropriate comment about people not-from-New York here.)

Twelve hours later, I received a message letting me know that @Hellmanns had started following me on Twitter. Is cyberspace a great country or what? I immediately followed them back. I have, after all, been under the thrall of the One True Mayonnaise since the mid-1950s.

Hey, I may not remember what I had for breakfast this morning, but I can easily conjure up the gustatory memory of metal locker-warmed, wax paper-wrapped, brown-bagged bologna sandwiches made with heart-stopping amounts of Hellmann's Real Mayonnaise. As for my cholesterol levels, they're just fine, thankyouverymuch.

Funny, You Don't Look Easter...

h/t to Tom Stitt for sending me to Neatorama!

Snow Day! Let There Be Snacks.

A chicken is roasting in the oven, but that's not why I went food shopping yesterday afternoon.

The weather forecasters predicted a huge snowfall, something folks on Twitter were tagging as #snowpocalypse. Having lived in Rochester, New York and then central Massachusetts, I'm rarely moved by weather-generated hysteria. I've seen real snow. Heck, I've even driven in it without 4-wheel drive. Not around here, of course.

Here in Suburban Captivity, everyone freaks out whether one inch or three feet of snow are predicted. Here, everyone heads for the stupormarket to stock up for the big storm. What do they jam the parking lot, clog the aisles, and choke the checkout lines to buy? Bread and milk.

Bread. Milk. Why?

Me? I go to the store to load up on items in these essential foods groups: crunchy-salty, dip, dessert, caffeinated soda, and dark chocolate. Being very disciplined, I wait until at least four inches of snow have accumulated before digging into these goodies.

And I never worry about gaining weight because like anything scarfed down in a moving vehicle, snow day snacks do not have calories.

Balls...Made of Matzo Meal

Sometimes the most innocent question will plunge me into an unexpected amount of pondering. A not-Jewish someone recently asked if I had a good recipe for matzo ball soup. I came to a full stop at the concept of good.

Finding a good recipe for matzo balls is easy. Use whatever recipe is printed on the box of matzo meal. If that seems too prosaic, then by all means search the Internet or crack open a Jewish holiday cookbook. The recipe you find will be like the one printed on the box of matzo meal, with perhaps chopped parsley added for culinary bling.

Making matzo balls that are good? How the Gehenna would I know?

My grandmother's balls were so compact and tough that a serrated knife could hardly hack through them. Were her matzo balls good? Decades passed before I encountered firm yet light matzo balls. Being able to use the side of a soup to slice through them easily was certainly a pleasant relief, but were they good?

When it comes to matzo balls, good is a relative concept and I mean that quite literally. No one raised Jewish would even think to ask anyone other than the family matriarch for a recipe. The word "good" would remain silent as the box of matzo meal was handed over.

Photo: Coconut & Lime/Flickr

When Pi Day and Purim (almost) Collide

I realize this is old news, but yesterday was Pi Day. Perhaps you were able to scarf down your pie of choice to celebrate, I was not.

Believe me, I was more than willing to devour an entire pie to make up for the hamantaschen debacle earlier in the week. After that Purim party pooper, I decided March 14th would absolutely have to include a huge slab of pie.

I should not have been surprised when my Pi Day plans crumbled like poorly constructed pastry.

The night before, which happened to be Friday the 13th, I had florid dreams about baking blueberry muffins in a kosher kitchen and getting chastised by Hasidim for my efforts. I woke up feeling disoriented and disgruntled, as well as exhausted. I woke up wanting blueberry pie with a side of Lekvar hamantaschen.

Since I was scheduled for a day in New York City, I thought this would be easy enough to accomplish. How hard could it be to find hamantaschen? New York is where, as Lenny Bruce of blessed memory once observed, "everyone is Jewish, even the goyim." I could probably find prune and poppy selections at good old Zaro's. As for blueberry pie, practically a given, given the right coffee shop. Alas, the day ended without either form of celebratory baked good.

Looks like I'll have to wait a year for a fresh crop of hamantaschen. And although I'm trying to resist spiritualizing this entire experience, I thank God that blueberries will be in season sooner rather later.

Holy Toast?

Just so happens I was writing about the Jewish roots of Eucharist when Marion called to say, "I have a little something for you, okay if I stop by?"

I didn't see the "little something" at first. I was too busy oohing and aahing over the gorgeous loaf of challah she'd tucked into a lovely gift bag. But prompted to look again, I found it -- my very own Holy Toast Visionary Bread Stamper.

We adjourned to my kitchen and followed these easy directions: "Press the stamper into any ordinary slice of bread, toast it, and behold a miracle!"

Behold a miracle? How about this shocker:

Mary didn't appear on the slice of toasted challah, not even after we buttered her up. Nor did she appear on the slice of Jewish rye we used for our next attempt at holy toast.

"I don't suppose you keep white bread in the house," Marion said.

I felt torn between making the Sign of the Cross and muttering Kine-ahora while replying, "Absolutely not!"

Happy New Year again. This time, to trees!

15 Shvat

Before there was Earth Day and everyone was going green, the Jewish people established the feast of Tu B'Shvat. This is the New Year of the Trees! Yet another opportunity to praise and thank God for these marvelous creations.

Torah prohibits injuring, let alone destroying trees, which makes sense given the Israelites' history of desert wandering. Check out Chapter 8 in Deuteronomy which, please note, includes the first mention that we "do not live on bread alone but on every word that comes from the mouth of the Lord " (Deuteronomy 8:3).

Food is, of course, involved. In addition to planting and blessing trees, this holiday includes the custom of blessing and eating the seven species at a festive meal:

1. wheat (chitah)
2. barley (se'orah)
3. grapes (gefen)
4. fig (te'enah)
5. pomegranate (rimon)
6. olive (zayit)
7. date (tamar)

Blessed are you, O Lord our God, King of the Universe who has not omitted anything in His world, but has created in it goodly creatures and goodly trees, to give delight through them to the children of man.

What Day is it Anyway?

Although Merry-Go-Round is probably a more accurate descriptor, time has been see-sawing for me these days. I'm keenly aware of this phenomenon for a number of reasons.

First, there are the conversations during which I'm gently reminded, "You know how you get when you're finishing a book manuscript." Ok, so my time awareness gets weird.

And then, there's Facebook.

Just as I got my Twitter addiction controlled, I was invited to join my high school reunion's group on Facebook. I joined and I participate. I participate a lot. Here's my excuse: I went to high school with funny, smart, talented, creative, generous, and funny people. They also call me by the nickname I had growing up. One even wrote, "Sorry but I cannot call you 'Meredith.'" Fine with me!

While some of us can't recall what we had for breakfast, we do remember luridly hilarious details about teachers, detention, the cafeteria, and other errata. Recently, some folks were musing about the cost of tickets to see Iron Butterfly at the Fillmore East ($4.00).

Because we're also sharing who we are today, time is skipping and tripping all over the place. Thus, I was more than a bit confuzzled to get email this afternoon from a relatively new friend who asked, "What are you doing for your anniversary tomorrow?"

My anniversary? What anniversary? Which anniversary? Time became a Tilt-a-Whirl as my brain raced through all the possibilities, but in the end I simply want to know: Is cake involved?

It's Almost the Night Before Christmas...Go Fish!

Years ago, when I told my Jewish mother I was on my way to becoming Catholic, she had the chutzpah to ask, "How did this happen?" Amazing. How could she forget about foisting fish on Fridays?

On Shabbat, instead of roasted chicken or a nice brisket (note: "brisket" is always modified by "nice"), we usually had fish. Often scallops, sometimes shrimp scampi. Is it any surprise that on the night before Christmas I so easily come under the thrall of Sicilian Catholics?

Their pre-Christmas Vigil meal involves at least three fish dishes (representing the Holy Trinity) and as many as thirteen (representing the Last Supper) but usually net out at seven (representing either Creation or the Seven Deadly Sins).

The Feast of the Seven Fishes includes a variety of seafood and shellfish. It's all prepared with enough garlic to guarantee spacious pew seating even if you arrive late for midnight Mass.

You could try cooking this extravaganza at home following menus and recipes on Epicurious or What's For Dinner? But why? More fun and less labor intensive to wrangle an invite from first generation Italians. Just be prepared for the high-decibel-and-velocity conversation and unless you were also raised Italian or Jewish, don't even try keeping up -- with any of it.

An Author's Life: Nourishment (V)

You might not think that sitting in front of a computer screen is hard, hunger-generating work but it's all that and more.

For me, book writing generates a snack-a-thon of major proportions and so for this latest endeavor, I've been fixated on three major food groups: salty, crunchy, and carbonated.

When I worked in and wrote for the holistic health industry, I learned to appreciate the body's wisdom. I learned to honor food cravings. So what if I'm craving salami, Cheez Doodles, and Diet Cream Soda instead tofu, carrots, and kuchika tea? Craving = body wisdom.

Now I'll admit to feeling a wee bit guilty, not to mention bloated, but the writing has been going relatively well -- considering it's book writing -- and I don't want to mess with that by switching to leafy greens and lean meat.

Plus, I'm observing portion control by getting small bags of the Doodles. The label on the cream soda explains that it has "no nutritional value" which, as far as I am concerned, means it's benign. Gornish mit gornish, so to speak. The salami? What can I say? I'm writing about how Christians need to be more educated about Judaism's legacy.

Pathetic? I'll be sorry? You'd think so. But I had blood work done two days ago and someone from my doctor's office called to say, "Your blood work looks great! Your cholesterol is very low!! Keep doing what you're doing!!!"

I know. I hate me, too.

L'Shana Tova! Pass (on) the Taiglach

My mother recently went on and on about the Rosh Hashonah honey cake she's baking for the Korean women she's teaching to read and speak English. "It's a real gooey mess to make," she told me. Proudly.

And my first thought? Good thing she's not baking taiglach for them. Taiglach, a pile of fried or baked honey-coated sticky tooth-cracking dough balls studded with nuts and candied cherries is dental work waiting to happen.

As I write this I'm wondering if anyone has checked the correlation between pushing taiglach and having a dentist in the immediate family. Bet there is.

Happy 5769!

Sensual September

Martha's comment about sharpened #2 pencils transported me into a brief and welcomed work-avoidance reverie about scents of September, especially ones that conjure up memories of school.

While much of elementary school remains a blank, there are scents (and tastes) that never fail to transport me to a happy place. Here's my list. What's on yours?

• Crayola crayons (preferably the box of 64 colors)
• Play-Doh (available as spray cologne)
• Construction paper (freshly ripped)
• White paste (slathered onto arithmetic paper and crumbly-dry at the edges)
• Pencil shavings (from #2 pencils only)
• Kiwi shoe polish (in a drippy applicator bottle)
• Bologna w/mayonnaise on white bread (after ~ 3 hours in a brown paper lunch bag)