Low Fod What Map?

Today I made a decent red sauce. From scratch. With no recipe. And then... I served this sauce over zucchini noodles (aka zoodles). As I looked at this meal and watched my children eating it I thought to myself, “What have I become…”

My dad has always loved to cook. My mom will cook, but I don’t think love is really involved. I distinctly remember my dad trying to share his love of cooking with me. He would hand me my own cutting board and knife and demonstrate proper handling and cutting techniques. He would talk to me about fillings, and sauces, and pairing food, but I was never interested in any of it and he eventually gave up.

I ate whatever my parents made for me and cottage cheese. My dad would buy a large container of cottage cheese at the BYU creamery and I would often eat the whole thing in one sitting. My dad found this frustrating, as the cottage cheese wasn’t cheap, so he quit buying it. So I started eating yogurt instead. Lots and lots of yogurt. I liked the yogurt that had the fruit on the bottom because if I could get through the slightly sour unflavored yogurt I would be rewarded with pure sugary strawberry syrup and it was glorious. Unfortunately, once I was in college, I discovered that yogurt was expensive (though not as expensive as cottage cheese) so instead I purchased 49-cent cans of creamed corn and frozen orange juice concentrate. I splurged a little and bought the concentrate with calcium added. I was an adult after all; it seemed like the responsible thing to do.

I just didn’t really care about food. Don’t get me wrong, if some boy wanted to take me out to a fancy dinner with his dad’s credit card I wasn’t about to say no. But honestly, most of the time I was so involved in whatever I was involved in that I didn’t even think about eating. I just… didn’t care. I’m embarrassed to admit there were points where I may have even purchased egg salad sandwiches from the campus vending machines.

I started thinking more about food when I started hanging out with Mr. He had a free afternoon one Saturday and offered to help me move to my new apartment. We’d been packing up boxes all day and it occurred to me that he might be hungry. There was a gas station across the street from my apartment so I offered to buy him a hot dog. He was all, “Oh...wow...uh...gee. Ya, no.” So I bought one for myself instead. I took a bite as Mr. looked at me in disgust and I realized gas station hot dogs were maybe not the best dinner.

He came over to my apartment a few times after that. One time I offered him some creamed corn (which I would heat up in the can, in the oven, and then eat directly out of the can). He turned that down too. And I believe he asked something like, “Is this really what you eat? Like, on a regular basis?” “Oh he’s a food snob.” I thought, “Noted.”

The next time he came over I was determined to make him a real meal. So I purchased Hamburger Helper, of course. My roommate was kind enough to inform me that I also needed to purchase the hamburger for the Hamburger Helper. Oh and kool-aid, I also bought Kool-Aid. I had never made either of these things before. I don’t know what I actually did to the Hamburger Helper but it was not palatable. To make matters worse, I didn’t realize that you had to add sugar to the Kool-Aid so that didn’t work out super well either.

I must have been incredibly adorable in other ways because the poor guy married me anyway. Being married I decided it was high time I learned to cook. Did I want to? No. But I felt like it was the right thing to do. One of Mr.’s best friends had given us a rice cooker and an electric wok for our wedding so I decided I’d try my hand at stir-fry. I bought rice, pre-diced chicken, and frozen veggies. I put the rice in the cooker, and put the chicken and veggies in the wok. Anytime the veggies and chicken looked like they were getting dry I added generous amounts of soy sauce. And you know what...it wasn’t disgusting. A little salty, perhaps, but not terrible. And Mr. ate it, and he even said he liked it (silly man). So I made it again the next night, and the next, and the next, and the next, and the next, and then Mr. said, “You know, I love a good stir fry and all, but how about I start doing the cooking?” And I was like, “Yeah. I’m cool with that.”

As it turned out, Mr. loved cooking and he was pretty damn good at it too. So as the years passed it became a point of pride for me. I didn’t cook, my husband did. I liked it that way. Right after we bought our first house I was in the yard digging a hole for a new flowering cherry tree. We lived by the river and the lake so the ground was basically a giant rock pile and digging holes in it was hard. Really hard. My new neighbor saw me sweating and swearing and indignantly asked me, “Where’s your husband? Why isn’t he out here helping you dig that hole?” I paused just long enough to look her in directly in the eyes and said, “Oh he can’t dig right now; he’s inside baking cookies.” The best part is...he actually was and his cookies are a-mazing.

During the summer when he would leave for work, he would gently nudge me and say, “Hey, don’t forget to feed the kids lunch today, okay?” He wasn’t joking. If he was going to be gone on a trip he would leave casseroles and baking instructions. On nights when he would be home late, we ordered pizza or went out for hamburgers. This is how we lived for years.

The first time we were told the boy needed to eat gluten free (I think he was in 3rd or 4th grade), I went to the store and literally wandered around looking at shelf after shelf of food. But all I found, that I was sure he could eat, was a box of strawberries. When I came home, Mr. saw my purchase and said, “I think I’ll handle the gluten free thing from now on.” While the kids and I ate strawberries, Mr. got on the computer and did research, then ordered cookbooks and a grinder. It wasn’t long before he filled the kitchen with things like xanthan gum and his own gluten free flour mixes. He even figured out how to make a decent gluten free version of his amazing cookies. The gluten free episode lasted about a year before the boy got so skinny the doctors told us it wasn’t worth it and to switch back to a regular (preferably high fat) diet.

Things were back to normal. On weekdays Mr. would come home from work around 5:30 and throw something together and we’d eat by 6 or 6:30. Saturday we usually took the kids out to eat (assuming they ever finished their chores) and Sunday Mr. would make something more elaborate, and usually very tasty, after church. It worked for us.

But then, about a year ago, things got crazy. The boy was sick. Maybe the sickest he’s been so far? He hadn’t gone to school for weeks and we were seeing doctor after doctor. After some pretty extensive testing our new gastroenterologist told us the boy needed to be on a special diet. He said, “Basically he is going to need to eat gluten free, dairy free, and sugar free. And by sugar free I mean all added sugar. Do not add any real or artificial sugar into any of his food. And I’m including things like honey and maple syrup. NO SUGAR.” I nodded, he continued, “Oh and low fodmap too.” Seeing the “low fod what now?” reaction on my face he handed me a green paper that had a quick and dirty rundown of what a fodmap was. I went to the store once again, wandering up and down aisles, and again, I came home with a box of strawberries.

As I started to understand how strict this diet was I realized someone was going to have to spend a lot of time cooking. But not just that, someone was going to have to spend a lot of time researching and planning and shopping before cooking. I knew the job was too big for Mr. to take on and continue to work full time. So, because I like having a roof over my head, I knew this person had to be me. This time I took my box of strawberries, sat down at my computer and made a plea to a few health conscious friends. As it turns out I surround myself with very smart people. That day I bookmarked several sites about fodmaps and purchased three cookbooks: Against All Grains book 1 and 2, and Whole 30.

My first several attempts at cooking were not good. One day I made breaded salmon where I substituted white flour with coconut flour. Not only did it stink the house up for over a week, but it was inedible. We literally gagged, and then threw the rest of the salmon in the garbage and ordered Jimmy Johns (they have a great, very customizable, lettuce wrapped sandwich). That day I learned you can’t just straight-up substitute one flour for another.

Then there was the time the meat finished cooking 30 minutes before the side dish, and the time I burned the wooden spoon and melted the spatula. Or the time I burned my finger on uncured turkey bacon grease. Holy flip that hurt! The worst might have been the time I forgot to turn off the stove and then set a cardboard box on top of the flame. Lets just say I’m very blessed to still have a kitchen and all of my fingers. I had a lot of mishaps, made a lot of horrible food, and we ate a lot of Jimmy Johns. But eventually the day came when Mr. ate my dinner and said, “Huh, this is alright!” and he wasn’t just being polite.

So now every Sunday, I sit down with my cookbooks and Pinterest and I plan out meals and write up shopping lists. I buy things like Vegenaise and coconut aminos and I make my own ghee. I check the sugar content of every jarred and canned food I put in my cart. And oh the strawberries. I buy. So. Many. Strawberries. I buy two packages of fresh and 3 bags of frozen every other week. But now I also buy blueberries, but not blackberries because you know, fodmaps.

Not too long ago I was going to be gone most of the day and well into the evening. As I was walking out the door Mr. stopped me and said, “Oh hey wait...what am I supposed to feed the kids?” “Oh,” I said, “there’s a casserole in the fridge” and then I smiled and jokingly added, “And uh, don’t forget to feed them lunch, okay?”