Living with celiac disease for over 15 years has taught me a lot – mainly that I’m still susceptible to questionable decisions. Whether that’s a reflection on the disease or just my own quirks, I’ll let you be the judge. Now, let me regale you with the tale of my recent escapade.
Last weekend, Mrs. Dude and I played the role of moving crew for our youngest Dudette, Maddie, in Philadelphia. The switch from a studio to a more spacious abode sounded like a great idea until we discovered the catch – a three-story walk-up. The move started early, a 90-minute drive from our Dude Ranch in Asbury Park, and not a morsel of food in sight during that initial hour. Keep that in mind.
By 10 AM, we were in Philly, U-Haul in tow, and somewhat illegally parked. City moves are a logistical challenge, taking about an hour to load everything into the truck. At this point, I was a sweat-soaked mess, yet the topic of food remained untouched. Surprise, surprise.
Afterwards, we navigated the truck to Maddie’s new place, miraculously found a parking spot 30 yards from her front door, and embarked on the arduous task of lugging her belongings up three flights of stairs. Physically draining but oddly satisfying. It’s now around 2:00, I’ve burned 500 calories, and my stomach is demanding attention. Lunchtime arrives, and that’s when everything takes a turn for the worse.
Maddie, being gluten-free (though not celiac), suggested ordering from P’unk Burger, a place she had tried the night before. I did my research, noted their procedures and a dedicated fryer, and decided to go for it. I can practically hear your thoughts now – “Dude, uncharted territory, fast-casual joint, not your safest bet.” Yeah, I hear you now. But hunger has a way of clouding judgment.
I order a regular burger with a GF bun, a side of tater tots (a childhood favorite), and make it explicit that I have celiac disease. Maddie opts for a chicken sandwich on a GF bun, and Mrs. Dude goes for a veggie burger with a regular bun.
The food arrives after an agonizing 30 minutes. Starving and fueled by the memory of tater tots from my youth, I dive in. And that’s when Mrs. Dude spots it – my bun looks different. Cue a 7-minute bun inspection, and lo and behold, they gave me the regular bun meant for Mrs. Dude.
A call to the eatery ensues, and to their credit, they offer a choice – a fresh, correctly prepared burger or a refund. Considering my newfound reluctance, I opt for the latter, head next door for sushi, and attempt to continue living happily ever after.
Except, life doesn’t always follow the fairy tale script. My peculiar reaction time to gluten – a two-day delay – meant I hadn’t truly escaped the consequences. Since Sunday night, sleep has been elusive, focus a challenge, and an overall “off” feeling persists. Blame it on the tater tots.
So, what can we learn from this misadventure?
- Be better prepared: Why I didn’t pack some emergency rations is beyond me – just plain silly.
- We’re human: Lapses in judgment are inevitable, especially on an empty stomach. Cut yourself some slack.
- Don’t curse the celiac gods: Mrs. Dude and Maddie felt terrible about the mishap. My response? “It’s all part of the disease.”
If you need me in the next few days, you’ll find me in a gluten-induced fog.