For the Love of Wheat

Some villain in my neighborhood ordered pizza with a very strong garlic bread smell that wafted through the streets. It was cheap pizza. The sort that isn’t actually all that good, but if you grew up eating it, the taste has burrowed itself somewhere deep in the mind. It has been there so long it belongs. I was taking a leisurely evening walk when I smelled it. I squinted my eyes at the suspected house, as the taste memory filtered into my consciousness, creating a craving.

I’m not exactly your typical American. I hate football. I don’t watch TV. McDonald’s stopped being a part of my life fifteen years ago. But, I did have something in common with my fellow Americans: wheat. God do I love wheat. I did have it in common. I lost my American lifestyle two weeks ago.

I’m being dramatic. It isn’t gone forever. I think. I’m waiting thirty days to see if eating a gluten free diet helps with some health issues. I’ve been doing so good…until that villain in my neighborhood with the pizza delivery magnet on their fridge.

Surprisingly, I can live without bread. But pizza—no one should live without pizza. No American, anyway. Donuts. God I love donuts. I want to wrap my lips around a chocolate cake donut—nice and dense, but not too dense, sort of spongy, but not too spongy. Just right, like only wheat can do.

I took the kids to our local big box store. We hadn’t been in a while. The kids got to ooh and ahh over all the toys set out for Christmas, putting ideas in their heads. The tot fantasized over many a Barbie—which fortunately can be acquired at the thrift store for 50 cents. She found a Ken doll with a man-bun and some very stylish looking clothes and announced “this is the papa.” I have my doubts. Ken isn’t ready for fatherhood—he would definitely get puke on his cacti, and I get the feeling he’s got an eye for every piece of Barbie plastic that comes along. Anyway, I’m getting off track.

While I was at the local Walmart, I passed by the Subway they have inside. That’s when I knew the gluten deficiency was really starting to affect me. That off-smelling Subway bread that creates the image of one large scoop of preservatives being mixed in with the flour, then the dough left to soak up random odors from within a fridge—that shit smelled good. My god, I thought, how far I have fallen.

On the way home my mind drifted into fantasies. Pizza with a nice crispy crust that breaks with a crack when the teeth are sunk in, then requires a good twist with the jaw to get through the chewy center. Soft, voluptuous rolls dripping with butter, with the delicate, melt in your mouth texture. To bite that roll is to experience passion. Oh, and cookies. Real cookies—not that gummy rice flour stuff. Nice, wheat cookies, crunchy or soft—I don’t discriminate. The prefect combination of crunch and squish, as each bite of cookie is turned over by my tongue. I want them. I want them all, now.

I’m a fighter though. I’m not a quitter. I’ve invested too much now to walk away from this. I’ve been without my beloved wheat for two weeks, I can’t risk having to repeat this later, and sacrifice my sacrifice.

I just made cookies. Dark chocolate macadamia nut. Rice flour. It almost satisfied me.

I’m going to curl up in bed and let my mind wonder. I’ll think up a satisfying thought:

Outside it will be nearly freezing. A draft of cold air will rush in as the door closes. I will curl up on the couch in the dark room, the glow of the Christmas tree warm and calming. The couch will be snug with a quilt over it, so that I can curl up in my bedclothes. The house will be silent, except for the slow, gentle tick of the grandfather clock. Tick, tock, like a rhythmic massage. And my only companion with me in this happy place will be a donut. A chocolate cake donut. And I will ravish that thing.

Damn it, I love wheat.