I am that person who scoffs at lactose intolerance. They say Asians tend to be lactose-intolerant. I say the phobia is in your head.
On the California ballet, I vigorously nixed Proposition 37’s Right to Know initiative which would have required suppliers to label genetically-modified foods. Who cares? For all the people who shop at Whole Foods or read labels or watch what they eat, all that diligence won’t stop those same people from forming lines around Mitchell’s ice-cream or Mission Chinese. I doubt every scoop and every dish comes from all-natural ingredients!
I rolled my eyes in church when the priest announced they had a special line for communion for people who needed a gluten-free host. Have you had communion before? The host is the size of a quarter and dissolves easily in your mouth. If you’re scared to eat the body of Christ because you might have a gluten reaction, then no amount of praying is going to save your soul.
Grocery-shopping, I gloss over the low fat and nonfat dairy. I skip the free-range, cage-free eggs. I zoom by the grass-fed, hormone-free meats. I storm through the organic fruits and veggies, opting instead for regular-priced for regular people.
All my life I’ve been on an all-fat, eat whatever makes you happy diet. Cheesecake for breakfast. Cookies for lunch. Chips for dinner. Wash it all down with 2 glasses of wine a day. I believe that fulfilling your cravings should be the mantra for food consumption.
Until now…this ghost baby has gotten in the way. Instead of saying ‘we’re trying to have a kid’ or ‘we’re trying to conceive,’ I’m just going to say ‘ghost baby’ because this kid is haunting the bejesus out of me and my eating habits.
“Don’t eat that chocolate, mommy. Your insulin will spike.”
“Mommy no! Dairy makes me gassy.”
“Put that glass of Cab down, mommy. Remember what the acupuncturist said about alcohol.”
“Gluten bad. Gluten bad. BAD MOMMY!”
I am going to throttle this ghost baby.