Didja Ever?

Every year, we have a Friends & Family Halloween Cruise. For Halloween 2011, we flew from all over the country and met in Miami to embark on a 7 day Eastern Caribbean cruise. 


I'd cruised before. Several times. I knew what to expect. But I was surprised on the third night of the cruise when we settled into the main dining room and had a big friends & family dinner. On the menu was something new, called a didja. As in the picture of the menu above, the didjas were all things that you may have heard of, but never tried. We missed it on the first two nights because we didn't eat in the main dining room, but I personally made sure we didn't miss it after that. Here's what we had:


Night 3 Alligator
Night 4 Oysters
Night 5 Shark
Night 6 Escargots
Night 7 Frog Legs


I am proud to say that I tried almost all of it. 


Now duck may not be as rarely eaten as some of the above, but until recently, I had never had it. I enjoyed it the last two times I'd had the opportunity to try it (once as hors d'oeuvres an another time I tasted a friend's entree).


I'd never cooked it before, so I decided to give it a whirl. 

That's no latke...

That's me and my pop on his motorcycle in 1986. Back in simpler times. The things I remember about those times were Smurfs after gramma's General Hospital, my 5th birthday party with a ginormous piñata, my nickname Robbie, and my mom's home cooking. The days before a McDonald's value meal was cheaper than a ground beef meal with fresh veggies on the side.

I may reminisce about these days, and take a lot of my cooking inspiration from my mother, but there is one thing that I will never forgive my mother for: The Potato Pancake Day. 

It was roughly 1990. I was eight years old and we were living in San Antonio, Texas. It was a weekend, and my mom awoke to the three of us kids hungry as ever. Back to the Future II was on HBO, but the distraction wasn't working. Mom needed to cook us breakfast, and quick. We were out of cereal, out of bread, out of breakfast meats/eggs, and out of pancake mix. Somehow, a bag of potatoes = pancakes to her though (??) and she began to whip up something that looked relatively passable as pancakes. Once she got done cooking it all, she went to get the syrup. 

Well, have you ever been in a house with 3 kids and an open bottle of syrup? There might be a point at which the kids have a sweet tooth and can find nothing else but the syrup. To them, it's liquid candy. So yeah, we were also out of pancake syrup. 

No mind! Mom has a fix! She has a bottle of corn syrup in the cabinet, which she plunks down on the table in front of us. I grab a pancake, dress it with margarine, grab the corn syrup and pour it on. I take a big, huge, hungry-eight-year-old bite. 

And spit it out. 

It was quite possibly the grossest, dullest, most flavor-lacking pancake I'd ever had in my life, coupled with the ridiculously, overpoweringly sweet, flavorless gunk called corn syrup. I may have only been 8, but I am now near 30 and have never had potato pancakes or corn syrup since that day.

So how would brown rice pancakes turn out?

It's all some hoo-doo voo-doo.

A few weeks ago, for the first time ever, I went to Mardi Gras. Mr. Flairy and I drove about 1200 miles to New Orleans to experience the music, parties, drinks, beads, parades, port-a-potties, and FOOD!


I wasn't gluten free yet, but I knew it'd be my last hurrah before cutting wheat out of my diet. So I went nuts. I couldn't get enough red beans and rice. I got it from fancy restaurants, average restaurants, sketchy restaurants, and even street vendors. It was crack, and I was an addict.


On Fat Tuesday, we'd been in New Orleans nearly a week and were almost Mardi Grased out. We attempted to stay away from Bourbon Street and skim the edges of the French Quarter perusing shops, cafes, and anything else that caught our fancy. There was just one thing on the to-do list: check out a voodoo shop that was an authentic locals destination, and not some touristy "look at all our voodoo dolls" place. The very first thing we realized in our travels is that just being in New Orleans meant sh!t was going to get crazy. We had barely crossed Canal (the "border" between the business district and the French Quarter) some 6+ blocks north of Bourbon and had to pick our jaws up off the ground as we watched roving bands, mini-parades of people just dancing in the street (some to imaginary music!), costumes the size of 2-story buildings, and an atmosphere that was downright intoxicating.


We're not sure if it was some hoo-doo voo-doo that eventually got us there, but we finally landed on the front stoop of a circa 1760s home that had been converted into a shop. Inside, all manner of items could be found. There were jars and vials atop a glass bar with an attendant ready to measure out your brew-making ingredients, dried plants and grasses for your burning and cleansing needs, and of course the obligatory voodoo doll. 


One thing I hadn't counted on was a shrine to Loa (the spirits of Louisiana-style voodoo). Physically speaking, it was a non-working fireplace. Inside the fireplace were various religious texts, so that one could use the shrine for their flavor of god. Atop the mantle, a small wall had been built on the perimeter to keep offerings from falling off. There was a small pencil and scraps of paper nearby. Inside the mantle box, from end to end and front to back, those tiny pieces of paper with all sorts of wishes were wrapped around offerings like cigarettes, beads, marbles, and even cash. For a moment, I wanted to read some, but I am too firm a believer in karma. I did give the only thing I had on me -- a piece of gum and a Bacchus (nonsense & tomfoolery) parade coin. My wish was for a successful journey into a gluten free lifestyle. 


The spirits responded.

Withdrawal? Withdrawal? ...Withdrawal?

/marks Withdrawal absent

I'm not sure how to feel about the withdrawal symptoms that many have warned me about being absent. I have heard that the first week is the hardest. I'm supposed to be moody, fighting cravings, and struggling with my own willpower. 

But I'm not.

Swan Dive

The hot Texas sun overhead beat down on my scrunched up nose as I squinted at the bright reflection on the pool's water. I should probably have been wearing sunscreen, but the babysitter hadn't thought we were going to be out all that long. The boy in front of me took a few steps forward and I subconsciously nibbled on my lower lip. The sound of water splashing and children squealing in delight were dulled as my own thoughts took over all of my senses.

I was in a line that terminated in a watery grave. As the line inched forward, I felt the eyes of all of my peers trained intently on me. The kids in front of me and the kids behind me were actors, and nobody was watching their performance. It was just me that they were judging. Finally, I reached a white set of stairs. A sharp whistle rang out, SHREEEEEEEETTTT! My head darted up to an older peer, perched on a high chair, his beady eyes looking straight at me. Judging me. Forcing me to walk the plank to my death. "One at a time!" he called, as if multiple deaths at one time was somehow frowned upon. The walkway in front of me trembled a bit, then took a giant leap up in the air, landing on its support with a metallic THUD. It was my turn.

I glanced at my peers behind me, who all looked back at me with judging, cruel eyes. I looked out across the water. Everything was standing still and everyone was waiting on me. I walked carefully down the walkway to where it ended. My heart was thudding uncontrollably. I desperately fought a paralyzing fear that threatened to take the use of my limbs away from me. One more quick glance around, and I stepped off. 

A moment of freefall in which I felt both terrified and intrigued at the same time, was followed immediately by the cool water enveloping me, and the air bubbles I'd taken with me tingled against my skin as they rushed to the surface. I opened my eyes just before my head broke the surface, and a huge grin spread across my face. I'd done it! I'd survived the diving board! I looked back at the line that'd been behind me, expecting wild applause, cheering, and chants for an encore. I got nothing. Just bored and impatient looks as they waited for me to get out of the way so they could have their turn.

I have been thinking today about how the beginning of this new lifestyle is similar to my first experience on a diving board.

Hello, My Name is Roberta and I'm a Gluten Fiend

The Last Supper.

Today’s meals have been a farewell to gluten. For tomorrow begins a 30-day experiment in living completely gluten free. Macaroni, brownies, cookies, pancakes…my diet today has been like the Last Meal for a comfort food-loving prisoner on death row.

My boyfriend thinks I’m crazy and has little faith in any positive results from the experience. But mainly his biggest complaint is that I will force him into a diet he doesn't want. One of my goals in this process is to convince him that he can still enjoy food, even if it is gluten free.

Let’s hit rewind and figure out how I got to this point.