The Narrowing

In my household, we gave up the bird a very long time ago. As a young ‘un, our kid showed a definitive preference for lamb over turkey, and even then we recognized his exceptional intelligence. Lamb it has long been, with my ratatouille, steamed rice or roasted potatoes, a good green salad with fresh herbs and balsamic, and decent bread.

Somehow this, our traditional Thanksgiving meal, has largely held up to my narrowing diet. I can no longer eat the rice, potatoes, or bread, but the ratatouille and salad are still doable, as is the lamb, marinated in good red wine vinegar and olive oil, wheat-free tamari, garlic, rosemary, and thyme and then grilled until I’m willing to physically fight for the blackened, fatty edges. (As I write, the kid is at the grill tending to the lamb.)

As my mother’s sight narrows from glaucoma and I read to her just about every night, as the list of foods I can eat has shrunken to the point where France probably won’t let me in, I’ve been thinking a lot lately about the narrowing.

We are born, albeit unevenly, into possibility. From there, while the world may occasionally expand in that magical moment between Nerf footballs and mortgages, things generally begin to close in.

My father’s world did it in his early 50s when he was diagnosed with M.S. My friend Colleen’s did it when she dropped from a heart attack and discovered a congenital defect that – while it didn’t outright kill her thanks to some nearby EMTs – means she can no longer do any cardio exercise, despite having been a seriously competitive runner right up until they wheeled her in.

I know myself well enough to know narrowing makes me panic and then grow glum. So, since April, when I discovered I can’t eat sucrose and starches, I’ve been working on food ridiculously hard. Ordering rare and unfamiliar ingredients – hon mirin from Japan, black lime powder from a reliable spice company, unsweetened chocolate from Askinose, and 5-pound bins of fresh walnuts from Citrona Farms. 

I recently met my meat farmer in an A&W parking lot to load up on his ground pork, chicken backs, beef bones (to make my own broth), and short ribs. The short ribs turned into a fine five-hour cooking. Most importantly, I was able to confirm that if you cook an onion that long, all the sucrose turns into a sugar I can digest. Onions!

I take help where I can find it. The economist who bought the house next door turns out to be a oenophile, and (on request) she quickly identified for me a vineyard that does no sugar-adjusting post fermentation – meaning I can drink all their wines, including whites, oranges, and roses, all of which I’ve had to otherwise avoid.

My friend Ellen, my food-finding sister in arms, sent me a cracker recipe containing only what I can eat. While he was between jobs, Aron made me a batch, and they were quite tolerable – basically flax seeds held together with some ground flax goo, with some sun-dried tomato and green chilis mixed in. But given that they required nine hours of preparation time (including about eight hours dehydrating in the oven), they seemed not worth it. Still, the recipe led me to find a commercial cracker line I can eat! Just to eat something crunchy and starch-like again feels like such a big deal. I can now enjoy guacamole on something other than a celery stick.

There are no more desserts – I mean, none you would think of as a dessert. There are berries (in small quantities) and chia pudding (unsweetened) and nuts of certain varieties (almonds are full of sucrose, darn it). But there’s nothing like a real dessert. At this point, smelling pastries is just painful; I won’t lie.

It will sound crazy, but exercise makes up for some of the dietary loss. Being able to still move – thinking of Dad and Colleen – feels like a gift. This morning I ran nearly 7 miles in a wind chill of 19 along the water, and I finished feeling grateful and fortunate. Getting on a bike makes me almost high. Swimming outside – well. Summer can’t come soon enough.

I try to remember all this as I figure out what my mother can still have. Almost no salt. But coconut macaroons, yes, and roasts with cabbage and onion, and stories that make her laugh. My sister just texted me a photo of what she made for Mom for Thanksgiving – starting with real Polish barszcz – beet soup – with a big dollop of sour cream and chopped fresh herbs and a beautiful green salad.

She texted me the menu earlier, noting there was a kind of hole in the menu. I said fill it with your piano playing and sing a song.

My mother reminds me sometimes what they had to eat during the war. Dinner consisted chiefly of a pot of thin soup into which they had thrown field-found greens and mushrooms – whatever they could find. Everyone just dipped their spoon in and ate down until they hit the bottom of the pot. She doesn’t tell me this to remind me I should be grateful for what I can still eat. It is, rather, just a memory that comes up when I say it feels sometimes like there isn’t that much left.

When I told her last spring that I realized I needed to go off starches and sucrose, she groaned deeply, with sympathy. We talked about how it would be possible, and she reminded me that one thing to keep In mind was how important it would be to make my food look good – to put it on a pretty plate, to put a little garnish on the edge, to light some candles and have some fresh flowers. To feel like it wasn’t just a war against the bacteria in my small intestine.

“And friends,” she said, “who will come to dinner and tell you how good your food is and remind you that you’re still eating well, and tell you something new.”

So: the good olive oil from Trader Joe’s; milked walnuts for my morning chia; Lobster Butter coffee, since I have to drink decaf (osteoporosis from the dietary problems); Scott’s pork cops and cubed steak; ripe pomegranates and fresh mint; Centime. And then butterflies, frog poses, downward dogs, and pigeons – all of the things Dad never did to feel his body before he couldn’t. And friends.