Bye Bye Crust

Just a gal, a bad gut and Italy on the horizon

So, I have finally learned my lesson, but I’ll take you back to the beginning first.

I got a parasite in Colombia, which resulted in seven really bad years of chronic brain fog. Doctors didn’t know what it was until a gynecologist couldn’t see my ovaries due to the thick wall of waste in my stomach. I got a colonic clean-out, which was weird and wonderful. The brain fog started to clear (shock horror).

Then chronic fatigue hit me like a truck, probably because my body was rid of a lot of toxins and depleted in every way as a result. I got my life back, but I kept existing, trying to be careful not to upset the fatigue, which made me feel like I didn’t have my life back. Tear

I found that a lot of foods caused constipation, therefore, the ‘sensitive stomach’ era began. I could eat this, couldn’t eat that. I did a low FODMAP elimination diet and determined I can’t touch dairy, some meats, wheat, some vegetables, and some legumes. But I can touch it if I only have one bite. The only issue being... I’m an all-or-nothing girly. I can’t just have one bite. I want the whole pie.

Why am I telling you this? I’m about to set sail to Italy for a month, and I find myself mentally preparing for all the food I can’t eat.

But before I go into it, I’ll tell you what my love language was from the age of 22 to the ripe old age of 30. My love language was getting my partner a cappuccino and a croissant from the cafe and sitting in a garden or by the beach consuming it. And he knew all too well to reciprocate. Saturday mornings were about going to a bakery. Friday nights were about finding good pizza.

I wonder if maybe I just overdid this food group and have to pay for it now by being forbidden to eat it. If only it was fruit I was forbidden to eat.

I grew up in a household that celebrated all things bread and cheese in quantities you wouldn’t believe. The fridge wouldn’t stay closed; it would stay open because someone was always reaching for the next piece of cheese to put on their crunchy bread. The fridge bell would sound its alarm, and we would close it momentarily, only to reopen it again to keep snacking. This happened so naturally that none of us really ever realized we did it. Kind of like snoozing your alarm in your sleep.

I can’t remember ever being hungry for a main course in my household. Oh, the injustice!

So here I am, age 32, trying to unwire all the neural pathways that point me towards a crust. You know that dark brown thing on the edge of a loaf of bread? That’s where I want to go.

I know there are other ways to fulfill this sort of appetite. Rice has become the new bread in my life, and congee is a wild ride. But there will be little congee in Italy. This will be hectic exposure therapy for my little soul. The sights, the smells, the glazed look in my friends’ eyes when they finish a whole pizza by themselves.

I want the crust that’s at the end of a pizza, or the start of a pie. I want it all the way through a cannoli. It’s the contrast for me that makes the experience so heavenly. Something flavorsome and wet coats your mouth as your teeth attack the project you have fed it. I just love it. And it’s good to be passionate about something. But I am not allowed to be passionate about this anymore.

Every shrine I stumble across in Italy, you will see me clasping my hands, head angled down, muttering something softly to the angels, or Joseph, or Jesus. I suppose I’ll know when I get there.

‘Please, if there is a God, give me strength. Don’t let me eat the pizza I just saw a moment ago. Help me admire it, but not give in to temptation. Or deliver me from evil.’

Strength will have to do. For Italy will have temptations on every corner, in every town and city. And the strength I shall cultivate on this trip will only teach me wonderful lessons, make me wiser, keep me grounded, and against my deepest desires, probably keep me trim too.

Salute.

M.