My curiosity is satisfied. You know, what would happen if I ate some meat or cheese after all this time? How many months now, eight, nine? I found out yesterday.
I am now Vivian Leigh standing in the carrot patch passionately proclaiming to the heavens, “As blog is my witness, I will never eat animal secretions again!”
The Chef wanted surprise me with lunch yesterday. He negotiated a vegetarian panini from a food truck vendor and specified in earnest, “No cheese of any kind.” He swears he repeated it several times. They promised. They lied.
When he got it home it was cheesy. His surprise was ruined as soon as I opened it. He was crestfallen. And pissed. And he doesn’t do things like this very often. I was afraid that after this failed attempt he might never do it again. I tried to rally.
“I’ll take it off. See? It peels right off. No harm done. I can still eat it. Mmm…yummy!”
Only the cheese had melted in the paninis press and then cooled on its way home to me. The fact that it had congealed into a peelable layer did not guarantee that the liquid cheese goo didn’t sleep into the bread. Or mix with the pesto globs. Or cling to the tomato. What ever melted out of the cheese was still in the sandwich. But I was so intent upon salvaging The Chef’s rare romantic surprise that I did not consider this.
It couldn’t even be considered cheese. The part that was left, I mean. It was cheese residue. And it was a negligible amount. But the next morning (today) I was in hit-clenching butt-wrenching agony on the toilet. No joke, full-on crying. Snot. Moaning in pain. Tears of woe. A former cheeseaholic experiencing intense cheese residue regret. And of course, The Chef felt even worse than after his ruined surprise.
“Are you okay in there?”
“It’s not your fault. I chose to eat it.”
Groan. Sob. Sniffle. Sounds of spouse edging away from the door.
Now I know what would happen. What will happen. If I can help it, never again. Imagine if it had been the whole slice. I might still be in there praying for relief.
And to think my body was once so tolerant of dairy that I ate cheese and milk every single day. I used to put heavy cream in my coffee. I drank whole milk daily. I considered all other foods to be vessels for cheese. And now a scant trace of dairy residue sends my body into violent rejection.
When I told the story to the girls at work, both of whom are dairy-lovers, they both said the same thing. “Wow. That just shows how bad it really is for us even though we are so used to it.” Their words, not mine. But yes, the intestines don’t lie.
When The Chef asked me what I wanted to eat this weekend I answered, “As long as it comes from the ground, I don’t care.”