It has now been slightly over two years since I found out I have a gluten intolerance, and a few months shy of two years being gluten free (I was definitely in denial for the first few months). I am happy to report that going gluten free has proved highly beneficial for my emotional and physical health, although it has been one heck of a ride psychologically. To give up something so ingrained into American culture (you can't even eat regular Ranch dressing for crying out loud!) and even more so ingrained in typical American Mormon culture has been more than difficult.
It's kind of funny. Once you find out you have to go gluten free, all of a sudden, a whole city seems to surface with all kinds of resources and ideas to help you, that it all seems overwhelming. There are SO many blogs out there that are gluten-free or gluten-free and dairy-free, or gluten-free, lactose-free, egg-free, meat-free, your-mom-free, you get the idea. Everyone tells you, look up this blog or, this site has great recipes, etc. What the DON'T tell you, is that most of the whatever-free blogs out there are written by people that are at least 5 years into this process. So while every gluten-free blog has a different answer to questions about the exact 12 kinds of flours that you need to make a loaf of bread the same texture, color, and density as your favorite childhood bread, they DON'T have answers to the questions a new gluten-free person really wants answered like "My whole pantry is stocked with foods now declared as poisonous. What do I eat this week so I don't starve to death or just kill myself since it would easier?" Or, "what can I feed my newly diagnosed son for lunch tomorrow since we've been buying lunch regularly? Since he is now gluten intolerant, there is probably nothing at the school cafeteria that he could eat." Or maybe you're just wondering "how do I not hate my life?" Or, "how do I avoid hating all the people around me that can eat all of my favorite foods while I must suffer in bitter anguish?" One thing I still haven't figured out is how to navigate social situations. There's always food! And it gets really awkward really quickly when someone asks you like you're an alien, "you don't want any cake?" And then there's this unavoidable 10 minute pitty conversation explaining why you can't and going through all the things you can't eat and the other person expressing sympathy, telling you how hard that must be. Just re-open the wound, why don't you?? But, I digress.
Here's the point. When you're new to the gluten-free way of life, the LAST thing you want is to sift through 100 complicated gourmet recipes of how to make red velvet cake cupcakes to find something for tonight's dinner. What you'd really like to know is what to do with what you already have in the pantry. Unless you're a chef or have cooking and baking as a main hobby, you're probably more concerned with surviving than with buying 20 different ingredients you can't pronounce and you probably don't know how to use. My guess is, you'd really like to not starve.
If this is your plight, my friend, my first suggestion is, DON'T LOOK AT GLUTEN-FREE BLOGS. They will most likely overwhelm you. You probably don't have the time or the interest to try so many cake and cookie recipes anyways. Don't worry, you'll probably get there in a few years, and you'll probably start a blog just like them, but for now just focus on today, tomorrow, or this week. Find ways to adapt the meals you like to eat. Substitute different ingredients for glutenous ones. Be bold with new combinations. And don't worry, you'll fail a few times, but that's the fun of it!
Saturday, September 22, 2012
Thursday, August 23, 2012
Hikes and PhDs
For those of you who have gotten/are working on a PhD (or watched someone else go through the process), you may enjoy the metaphor I discovered this morning in my impromptu solo hike to the "Y".
To set the stage, you should know a few things. I flew in last night after a full day of travelling, which aggravated an old ankle injury. I have been living at basically sea level for the last three years. I also have not exercised regularly since... well, ever. You should also know (as I did not) that "hiking the Y" is not an easy accomplishment - at least not for out of shape first-timers like me :)
I set out relatively early this morning (a perk of jet lag) for a nice easy jog. I thought I would check out the neighborhood, etc. As I was jogging along I looked towards the mountain and saw the Y. I've never hiked the Y, and for some reason I thought it would be a good idea. It took me quite a bit of time to make it to the parking lot and I was already tired by then, but the Y looked so close and like such a doable hike. :)
Here is the experience. Perhaps you can relate; hopefully you can see some parallels, as I did.
(Context for the story for those of you who have not hiked the Y: there are 9 turns or switchbacks before you reach the top and each turn is marked with a sign which tells you which turn it is and how much distance to the next turn.)
You start up the trail with hopes and sights high. I can do this, you think to yourself.
As start up the trail, already tired due to what it took to get there, you cross paths with people coming back down. Many of them are older, and more experienced. Several sport ipods and many are lightly jogging with pleasant expressions and greetings. They're obviously doing this for pleasure. You soon realize, however, what you thought would be fun has turned into a death march.
By the first turn, you have already paused for respite at least three times, looking busy or like you're stretching when someone passes by. You take in the incredible view. You can see all places you have been and the places you want to go; the great expanse of what has been and what will be your experience.
By turn three, you think you're going to die and the thought crosses your mind, next time, I think I'm going to bring water.
Somewhere between turns three and four you feel like you're going to vomit. The realization that you're only a third of the way there is depressing, but you push on.
By turn five you know you're going die, and sit for a rest - not caring at all how people will judge you. A nice older woman passes you on her way down the mountain, looks at you, and says somewhat mockingly, "Well, you're half way there!" The question you want to ask is, is the second half any easier?
At turn six you look to the view for some motivation to continue. You recognize, however, it's still the same view you've seen the whole way up.
Your back muscles are permanently tight at this point, and it takes increasingly more energy and drive to simply take the next step. You find yourself paying more attention to the mile markers on the trail. How much longer to the next post? You start to question how you're going to get yourself out of the mess you've gotten yourself into. Need an airlift off of the mountain is not outside the realm of possibilities.
The view becomes larger. You can see more, but with less detail and certainty than before. Where's my house again?
By turn seven, you just don't care. You don't care about the pain.You don't care about the struggle. But you have gone through so much, and you certainly don't want to do it again. You have to reach the top.
At turn eight you realize a decision point is coming. Do you take the higher road to the top of the Y? Or satisfy yourself with the path to the bottom? But then you remember, when have Chapmans ever taken the easy road?
At turn nine you see a fellow struggler; someone you saw struggling as she passed you earlier on the trail. She pauses to take on the view as you continue onward. You take a breather a few feet later and look back to see she's headed down the mountain now. Not up anymore. Maybe she wasn't struggling as much as I thought. Maybe it's just me.
You can see in the distance a water park waiting peacefully at the bottom of the mountain. Why wasn't that my morning activity?
Definitely the lower path, you decide. I don't care what people think of me. I want to live! I want to go home and get on with my life!
You top the next rise and see white- the Y! You draw nearer and realize you've been on the higher path all along. Well, actually, you reach the middle. but somehow you don't care anymore. You just want to go home.
Dirty, sweaty, and tired, you head back down the mountain. Was it all worth it? I don't know. But I've hiked the Y, and that means something to those who have done it.
To set the stage, you should know a few things. I flew in last night after a full day of travelling, which aggravated an old ankle injury. I have been living at basically sea level for the last three years. I also have not exercised regularly since... well, ever. You should also know (as I did not) that "hiking the Y" is not an easy accomplishment - at least not for out of shape first-timers like me :)
I set out relatively early this morning (a perk of jet lag) for a nice easy jog. I thought I would check out the neighborhood, etc. As I was jogging along I looked towards the mountain and saw the Y. I've never hiked the Y, and for some reason I thought it would be a good idea. It took me quite a bit of time to make it to the parking lot and I was already tired by then, but the Y looked so close and like such a doable hike. :)
Here is the experience. Perhaps you can relate; hopefully you can see some parallels, as I did.
(Context for the story for those of you who have not hiked the Y: there are 9 turns or switchbacks before you reach the top and each turn is marked with a sign which tells you which turn it is and how much distance to the next turn.)
You start up the trail with hopes and sights high. I can do this, you think to yourself.
As start up the trail, already tired due to what it took to get there, you cross paths with people coming back down. Many of them are older, and more experienced. Several sport ipods and many are lightly jogging with pleasant expressions and greetings. They're obviously doing this for pleasure. You soon realize, however, what you thought would be fun has turned into a death march.
By the first turn, you have already paused for respite at least three times, looking busy or like you're stretching when someone passes by. You take in the incredible view. You can see all places you have been and the places you want to go; the great expanse of what has been and what will be your experience.
By turn three, you think you're going to die and the thought crosses your mind, next time, I think I'm going to bring water.
Somewhere between turns three and four you feel like you're going to vomit. The realization that you're only a third of the way there is depressing, but you push on.
By turn five you know you're going die, and sit for a rest - not caring at all how people will judge you. A nice older woman passes you on her way down the mountain, looks at you, and says somewhat mockingly, "Well, you're half way there!" The question you want to ask is, is the second half any easier?
At turn six you look to the view for some motivation to continue. You recognize, however, it's still the same view you've seen the whole way up.
Your back muscles are permanently tight at this point, and it takes increasingly more energy and drive to simply take the next step. You find yourself paying more attention to the mile markers on the trail. How much longer to the next post? You start to question how you're going to get yourself out of the mess you've gotten yourself into. Need an airlift off of the mountain is not outside the realm of possibilities.
The view becomes larger. You can see more, but with less detail and certainty than before. Where's my house again?
By turn seven, you just don't care. You don't care about the pain.You don't care about the struggle. But you have gone through so much, and you certainly don't want to do it again. You have to reach the top.
At turn eight you realize a decision point is coming. Do you take the higher road to the top of the Y? Or satisfy yourself with the path to the bottom? But then you remember, when have Chapmans ever taken the easy road?
At turn nine you see a fellow struggler; someone you saw struggling as she passed you earlier on the trail. She pauses to take on the view as you continue onward. You take a breather a few feet later and look back to see she's headed down the mountain now. Not up anymore. Maybe she wasn't struggling as much as I thought. Maybe it's just me.
You can see in the distance a water park waiting peacefully at the bottom of the mountain. Why wasn't that my morning activity?
Definitely the lower path, you decide. I don't care what people think of me. I want to live! I want to go home and get on with my life!
You top the next rise and see white- the Y! You draw nearer and realize you've been on the higher path all along. Well, actually, you reach the middle. but somehow you don't care anymore. You just want to go home.
Dirty, sweaty, and tired, you head back down the mountain. Was it all worth it? I don't know. But I've hiked the Y, and that means something to those who have done it.
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