I’ve always thought food allergies were dumb, maybe even a myth. A peanut, one peanut, can kill you? I don’t believe it. About two months ago, I found out I have celiac disease. I took this to be the greatest Karma of all time; being allergic to gluten is even more embarrassing than being allergic to peanuts. 

Seeing as pretty much every worthwhile food contains gluten, you can imagine my struggle. Bread, brownies, pasta, bread, cereal, bread, donuts, bread: they’ve all got gluten. Did I mention bread has gluten? Ridiculous. These past couple gluten-free months have left me utterly lost. Without bread and pasta, who am I really? 

The worst part, possibly, is going out to eat. Especially with friends, they have that whole “you’re gluten free?” revelation and give me pitiful eyes. Yes, I’m gluten free. What about it? I’m still a person. Then, in an attempt to be helpful and understanding, allies to my celiac, they scour the menu for gluten free options. Always, they come to the same realization I had two months ago: gluten is in everything. 

Picture this: I’m at Spaghetti Works, searching for something I can eat. Obviously, I wasn’t too hopeful in a pasta palace. But then, out of some miracle of miracles, I found a gluten free section. I thought I must be the luckiest person in the world, and made a mental note of how grateful I was to Spaghetti Works. The gluten free section contained two options: four cheese ravioli or make your own pasta (as in choose what sauce you want on noodles, that was the only thing you made yourself). Like any sane person, I chose the ravioli. I told the waitress this, but I was informed that they no longer carried the four cheese ravioli. No worries, make your own pasta it was. I asked her, pointing to the gluten free section, if I could have the make your own gluten free pasta with alfredo sauce instead. She said absolutely, and I thought to myself how easy and wonderful that encounter was. 

Fast forward to the arrival of my pasta. Immediately, it looks too good to be gluten free. I also notice that there is chicken on it, which was not mentioned on the menu. I took a bite; it was absolutely delicious. I decided that Spaghetti Works either had the best gluten free pasta in the world or I’d been given regular pasta. Of course it was the latter, but I finished the pasta anyway. As far as I was concerned, this pasta was gluten free; after all, that’s what I’d ordered. When the ticket came the evidence became undeniable. Three dollars different than listed on the menu, with a different title and definitely no indication that this pasta I’d just consumed was gluten free. The receipt had confirmed my deepest fear. I’d been glutened. 

At first, I thought it might have been worth it. I’d done my best to order gluten free, I’d clearly communicated with the server that I couldn’t have gluten, but she’d brought me regular pasta anyway; and it was great. Maybe this was my fate: to have regular pasta this random Saturday night. 

The next day, my feelings about this incident changed dramatically and quickly. With a pounding headache and a spinning room, suddenly that waitress and her regular, not gluten free pasta was my least favorite thing. 

In complete honesty, a gluten free diet isn’t the worst thing in the world. Gluten free pizza and pasta are decent, and the room doesn’t spin anymore. My fruit and vegetable intake has also increased dramatically, so I know those people that used to come visit us in elementary school and lecture us about sugar and candy would be proud.