In Sickness and Health (and a Baked Potato)

I’ve had a lot of people asking what’s going on with my health the last few weeks. You all have seen some of my posts on social media about my dietary restrictions, noticed that I am drinking things like vegan protein shakes, eating gluten-free bread, and you know that it doesn’t seem like something a Southern food-loving girl such a myself would willing do: and you’d be right.

I have been having digestive nightmares issues since late October of last year, and no one can seem to figure out why. Something akin to a stomach bug suddenly came upon me, and has never fully let go. Suddenly, foods I used to be able to eat without any problem have become foods that make me sick. It’s a good thing I had bulked up quite a bit to begin with, because eliminating processed foods, fried foods, fatty foods, dairy, and any and everything else I could think of that might possibly make me ill has caused me to shed some serious pounds. The problem lies with the fact that, ten months into this adventure, we still haven’t really reached a diagnosis.

Before anyone tries their well-meaning best to contact me with suggestions, I am working with some good professionals to solve the mystery. We have run lots of (super fun!) tests and have already ruled out lots of scary possibilities, and by sheer process of elimination, we have to get to the bottom of this at some point (right?). We already know I don’t have colitis, Crohn’s, celiac, cancer, or a whole host of infectious diseases (although you never saw a woman so sad not to have an infectious disease…they can give you antibiotics for that and you can resume eating grilled cheese sandwiches).

Last week, after meeting with a dietician and at the advice of my gastroenterologist, I started the FODMAP diet. Most lucky people have never heard of the FODMAP diet, Lord, I wish I hadn’t, but FODMAP is an acronym for fermentable oligosaccharides, disaccharides, monosaccharides and polyols, which are carbohydrates that the small intestine absorbs poorly. Some people experience digestive distress after eating them. The diet is an elimination diet where you cut out high FODMAP foods and then slowly reintroduce them to figure out what you can tolerate, in what portion sizes, without feeling bad.

It’s not an easy diet to follow, because these FODMAPs are in the darndest things: wheat, garlic, and onion are the ones for me that stand out as the toughest to avoid. Garlic and onion are in everything! Try eating out and navigating a menu when you can’t have even a smidge of garlic or onion powder. There are even some strange things that I would have never thought to avoid, like celery and watermelon. I have been on diets since elementary school and I thought I had tried them all, but never have I ever been on a diet that restricted my celery intake. I keep telling myself it’s only temporary, and I have said multiple times that I will do anything to feel better; I just didn’t realize when I said that, it meant giving up bowls of fresh summer watermelon sprinkled with salt.

As I mentioned, eating out during the strictest phase of this diet is rough. I would rather just stay home in my pajamas and eat my diet food alone until this ordeal passes, thankyouverymuch. But Friday night we had two friends’ birthdays to celebrate, and I do not miss a chance to celebrate, garlic and onion bedamned. The dietician recommended eating at a steakhouse since steak, simple salad, and a plain baked potato were probably the easiest way to stay on track in a restaurant setting, and our friends kindly obliged. We made reservations at The Palm (a true hardship), and I was excited to at least get a break from all the meal preparation I have been doing.

I looked at the menu Thursday night in advance and started (as is my nature) to fret. It turns out, The Palm doesn’t offer baked potatoes as a side. They have French fries and hash browns, neither of which is good for yours truly to consume. I started worrying out loud while Clint was trying to watch TV. “If they have potatoes there, they can make you a potato,” he said, barely glancing up from his Netflix. “Baked potatoes take forever to prepare in the oven and I am quite certain there are no microwaves at The Palm!” I agonized. Oh well, I have reached the stage in this digestive game where I am quite used to a lack of food. Steak and a salad it would be. Who needs sustenance? Not me.

And then, Friday afternoon, I got this text message from the hubby:

Y’all. I have read all about the love languages and I’m telling you, they should add “Baked Potato” to the list because this was huge. I hadn’t even thought to call ahead and help myself out with a special request. What an idea! Food, all for me! I was giddy all the way to the restaurant. This is how you show your spouse you care: spuds!

Arriving at The Palm and feeling like a VIP: Very Important Potato Consumer.

One special order spud, all for me.

We had a lovely dinner, and that potato was delicious. On our way out, the hostess asked our group which one of us had requested a baked potato. When I proudly raised my hand, she giddily told us they are one of her favorite foods, but since they are not on the menu, she only gets them when a customers asks for one and she always asks the kitchen to make two, one for her as well. So I had my potato, and she got her potato, too. Win-win.

By now, you’re probably thinking my hubby is a saint and we should all gather ‘round as a hallelujah chorus, singing his praises. Yes, it was such a thoughtful thing to do and I give him lots of credit, and an A plus for effort. But as he pointed out to our friends a dinner that evening, brownie points that a man accumulates are very fleeting; they cannot be banked for future use and they expire oh-so quickly. My case in point:

That’s our Saturday morning breakfast, in which Clint got his sausage McMuffin from McDonald’s and I had an egg white frittata with vegan cheese. I suppose all good things must come to an end, even baked potato-fueled fairy tales. I bet McMuffins don’t taste as good when you have to listen to your wife deep sigh beside you the entire time you are trying to eat it, but you will have to ask Clint about that. The diet is only temporary, and hopefully it will yield some answers about what foods are best for me to eat. And while we say that points for good behavior expire in rapid fashion, you can believe I will remember that special order baked potato for quite some time.

The Tomato Sandwich

I couldn’t let summer slip away without talking about the tomato sandwich. It is, in my humble opinion, the season’s perfect food. Simple, fresh, and straightforwardly delicious, there is something about that dripping concoction that refreshes and satisfies like nothing else when the temperatures are hot and the humidity is thick and bearing down on you (our local weatherman has accurately coined it “air you can wear”). To be clear, the sandwich I am speaking and dreaming of is the Southern tomato sandwich, which consists of nothing more than fresh white bread, a generous slather of (preferably Duke’s) mayonnaise, ripe tomatoes, and hearty doses of salt and pepper. This is not the time and place to get fancy.

I am sad to say I haven’t had one of these delectable sandwiches yet this summer, because the idea of making one on my now mandated gluten-free bread is blasphemous to me. A tomato sandwich should not occur on multigrain, sourdough, not baguette nor marble rye—it should be made on the softest slices of white loaf bread you can find and the only debate to be had is whether you choose Wonder Bread, Sunbeam, or a generic store brand variety.

As for the tomatoes, I want to be a purist and tell you that only homegrown, garden fresh tomatoes will do. However, I am a city-dweller who possesses a black thumb, and the best I can manage is to procure my tomatoes from a farmer’s market or beg them from a friend’s garden whenever I get the chance. Store bought tomatoes are usually grainy and less than ideal for making delicious sandwiches. Some folks insist that on a two slice maximum, because overloading the white bread can cause it to give way; I prefer to let greed be my guide and I stack my slices like a game of Tetris until I can’t stack any more. No risk, no reward, in my book. I will also confess to you something I never gave a second thought but am now starting to puzzle over: all my sandwich making life, I have peeled the skin off my tomatoes. Does anyone else take this step, or are you all simply slicing away? It’s an extra step, but a labor of love, and one I assumed everyone was doing that I now realize may be an anomaly.

You should, by now, already know my stance on mayonnaise: Duke’s mayo or bust. There is a reason this beloved spread has a cult following; it’s simply the best there is, and no Hellman’s or Miracle Whip can stand in the same room (I will begrudgingly allow the use of Blue Plate as a runner-up in emergency situations). Use whatever spread your heart desires, but if you truly want to make yourself a Southern “sink sandwich” (aptly nicknamed because they are often eaten standing over the kitchen sink to catch the flowing, messy juices that run down your chin and hands), Duke’s is the only way to go.

And when it’s time to season your magnificent creation, I prefer simply salt and pepper. A few years ago, a friend boldly suggested the use of celery salt. Feeling adventurous, the husband and I gave it a try one wild weekend. Clint was a fan, but only as a now-and-then change-up and not as an every time use, and I am just a creature of habit who cannot be so bold as to embrace trendy fads such as these on my tried-and-true beloved sandwich. Another acquaintance who clearly thought I was a renegade once suggested adding basil; the mere thought made my heart race. People really are mad out there. I cannot even bring myself to use kosher or sea salt in place of regular old iodized salt straight from the shaker (and the more salt the better, if you ask me. My husband jokes that I like my sandwiches to glisten). If it ain’t broke, after all.

I recently came upon this recipe in which the author heralds “My Best Tomato Sandwich” and was intrigued. After all, I have a deep, abiding love for tomato sandwiches and have been eating them since I was able to chew, so what, pray tell, would make one the Best? Y’all. This lady, who bless her heart, after a slight bit of internet research revealed heralds from New York, has no idea about tomato sandwiches AT ALL. First of all, she toasts multigrain bread. Toasts? What kind of bread? What in the devil? She also suggests we slather mayonnaise on just one piece of this bread, which I feel is a huge mistake. Southerners know you need lots of mayo to act as glue and hold those slippery ‘mater slices onto your bread, although the “Eli’s Health Loaf” she recommends using may offer a tighter grip (it’s giving me the heebie jeebies thinking about a tomato sandwich on something called a health loaf, to be honest). I don’t know what kind of sandwich that winds up being, but it is not a Best Tomato Sandwich. I bet she’s never even eaten hers standing right over her sink. I could invite that lady down South and whip her up a real bonafide sandwich with some Sunbeam, Duke’s, and a garden tomato that would knock her socks right off.

There’s a reason the tomato sandwich has been around for over a decade and we still never get tired of eating them. In the South, are summers are long and hot, and tomatoes thrive in the heat even if we do not. It’s easier to stop complaining about the heat and the gnats and the mosquitos if you’ve got sandwich bread stuck to the back of your teeth. While there’s still some summertime left. pour yourself a glass of sweet tea, slice up some watermelon, and make yourself that perfect Southern tomato sandwich (maybe even make an extra one and eat it for me). Just make sure you don’t serve it up on Eli’s Health Loaf, okay?

Now that is what I call a work of art.