Growing up I had a lot of bread. My parents came from Central Europe. Anything and everything came in some type of sauce. We would have these loaves of French and Italian bread cut in thick slices with every meal. If there was any left over, my mother would say, "Help your father finish the bread. I don't want to have to put two slices back in the bag." And there I went, sopping up the sauce with the thick, fluffy bread. Sounds good, doesn't it?
It wasn't. I spent far too much time feeling sick and running to the bathroom as a youth. My parents would think I was eating junk food on the sly, but that wasn't it. It was the bread. And the oil. And the copious amounts of pasta which would make an appearance at least two times a week. This pattern is continuing even into my 40s, which really sucks. It also sucks that the very things I crave, the foods I enjoy the most, are my lifelong enemies.
And although I am stubborn to a fault, I am forced to admit that bread and the like give me serious digestive upset. And it seems to be getting worse as I get older. I guess I will have to just try and console myself with fewer stomach problems and my will to try and be healthier. Damn it.
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