Risking my life as we speak: A lil peek into my brain lately.
Plus an easy banana bread recipe and some retail therapy inspo.
Ok here we go. If you are a paid subscriber to this newsletter, I am so sorry for my minimal output. And by minimal I mean absolutely nothing for months. I have been a terrible host. Thank you for being here!
I would like to promise that from here on out I will be a consistent and reliable news source of all things my brain, but I am a realistic person, and we’ll all just have to wait and see. Hopefully you’ll stick around to find out. Or fuck around and find out. Both work!
So have you heard of penicillin?
I only ask because I happen to be allergic to it. Or was allergic to it at one point. If you didn’t know, penicillin is an antibiotic that comes from the mold that grows on orange peels (and lemon peels, cantaloupes, bread, and certain cheeses). I’m also allergic to amoxicillin but the only context I have for that is the week I got to feed it to my daughter with a plastic syringe fort bacterial pneumonia. For the first time in my life, the abstract amoxicillin that up until then, had existed only on medical forms and permission slips, became real, quite unlike the velveteen rabbit. I held my breath as the viscous, yellow liquid filled the syringe. After each dosage, I washed my hands with scalding hot water and hid the medicine out of reach. Seems appropriate, no?
The reason I bring it up, the penicillin, is because there is no point in my day when I come into contact with it. There is zero chance of me ingesting, touching, or even catching a whiff of either penicillin or amoxicillin while I hover over my work computer, answering emails. And yet, I walk around my house in a state of fear, an absolute frenzy that I may, at any point in the day, come into contact with something I am allergic to, sending myself into anaphylactic shock, and sudden death, because like most women who have been gaslit their entire lives, I do not take myself or my symptoms seriously, and I would fail to call the emergency responders.
The something I refer to, could be anything. An unknown allergy is the scariest kind. The kind that sneaks up on world renowned chefs, the kind that shows up in incorrectly labeled store bought muffins. The kind that tingles your lips and puffs out your eyelids and itches the place under your skin that you can’t quite scratch until your friend looks at you and says, “there’s something happening to your face.” You get your phone out, turn your front facing camera on and see that you are definitely, almost positively having a reaction to something, and on your way to looking like someone with a diagnosed shellfish allergy who decided to eat an entire shrimp cocktail appetizer right off of the crystal martini glass it was served in because YOLO and she has two epi pens in her purse. Except, I don’t have two epi pens. I don’t even have one epi pen because like I said earlier, the only known allergies I have are to penicillin and amoxicillin and a person doesn’t just ingest either of those medicines without knowing. Cue the all encompassing fear of imminent death.
Let’s not forget that I am a mother. I have no time for this. I cannot possibly, with good conscience, spend all of my time thinking about and preparing for a sudden allergy that could kill me on the spot. And yet, i’ve spent enough time on allergy reddit to know that bendaryl can’t help you in a severe allergy attack, and neither can zyrtec, or any other antihistamine, over the counter or prescribed. The only thing that can help is a dose (or two) of epinephrine and a quick trip to the nearest emergency room. Despite this, I carry benadryl in my back pocket, and coat pocket, and toiletry bag, and cup holder, and inside purse pocket, because the little foil packets give me a sense of comfort and control in a world bursting with the possibility that this could be it. I check the clock after eating anything at all, because if I make it past the 15 minute mark, I’m probably good. I walk through the dining room only to glance at the mirror, checking my face for a ‘before’ reference. I lick my lips and clear my throat, making sure to notice any new or concerning sensations while I give the occasional, yea or mmh hmm that is required of a mom who pays enough attention to her children. Between forced swallows and the strategic pushing and pulling of my fork over my plate, I ask questions about school. Who had the most interesting book report. Me. What did you do at recess? Basketball. I pretend to drink my wine, which is very high in histamine, and check my watch again.
When my husband does leave the house, I slather a piece of toast with sun butter and take a bite. What was historically a “safe food” has now made it’s way to the bad food list. I feel weird when I eat it. My chest gets tight and I stop breathing. Not because something is happening but because I think it might. I convince myself one bite is enough and I walk by the mirror again. It’s not enough to be hungry, I need to be starving. My body, weak and lethargic, yet still buzzing with anxiety, signals to me that I need to eat. My fridge is filled with food but nothing that looks appetizing. I’m allergic to the eggs (says my ocd), the vinegar in the pickles might be a trigger, the seed crackers, although gluten free, pose a definite risk, and the coconut yogurt, well that one is obvious. I check the pantry. The cereal has honey on it and since honey comes from bees, the heart shaped morsels may as well be covered in venom. I could do fried rice but that requires soy sauce, and well, people are allergic to soy, so the next thing is seaweed but since that is covered in a sesame oil, I may as well just have water.
How’s work? Do you think you’ll be home early? I feign interest in a question that, for an off-duty fireman pushing paper, has only one answer: boring. What I really want to know is if I’ll be able to eat soon. When he asks how my day is I think about lying. I want to say that it’s going great, that my work is absorbing, and that I managed to go hours without panicking. Instead, I’m going to starve to death. Whether or not he takes me seriously, I don’t know. He responds kindly, with a sad face emoji, and the reassurance that he’ll be home soon. Ok. I put my phone down and take a deep breath. I can still feel the hunger. My body reminds me to eat, that I need nutrients to live, and though my mind is protesting, there is relief in sight.
after a few weeks of this torture, i’m happy to say that i’ve eaten many things today and am currently not hungry.
What to eat when you don’t know what to eat:
Cereal with milk. I substitute oat milk for everything because although I would love to drink whole milk from a cow, I don’t do well with milk products. Oatly is my favorite, but the Chobani one is a next best.
Spam and rice. This is good because so much salty goodness and very cheap. The plain white rice acts as a vessel for the crispy salt meat on top.
Cucumber slices and salami with Matzo crackers. It’s matzo season and they even come in gluten free.
Toasted bread of your choice with nut butter of your choice. If you are allergic to nuts, this sun butter is delicious. I top mine with maple syrup because I love myself. If you know you like maple syrup, and feel like skipping s step, this maple almond butter is bomb.
Banana bread. Sweet, chewy, warm. Yum. I prefer homemade. Here is the recipe:
Let me leave you with this
The perfect aviator frames to make you look even cooler as you peruse the neighborhood book store for Elena Ferrante because you care more about Italian literature than the latest TikTok trend. Obviously.
