eat me gluten!

You and me both, Al.

Tue, 08 Jan 2013 12:52:09 -0500

Tolerance

Sun, 06 Jan 2013 14:33:00 -0500

It doesn’t seem fair to give these Vanilla Sandwich Cremes from Schar a bad rating, since—especially since, shortly after my boyfriend gifted them to me, the box was empty and all the cookies that had once called it home were slowly dissolving in my stomach juices.

I didn’t really like the taste, but I ate them all. And then I wore the empty box as a cast for a while.

#recycle

What are some new ways to say “chalky”? I feel like I’ve already discussed—both at length and repeatedly, over the course of many posts—how gluten-free snacks tend to leave a specific and unpleasant residue in your mouth.

Synonym-driven thoughts related to Schar whatsits:

they are sugar squares spiked with dust
keep milk or something handy or the dehydrating effect will be such that you won’t be able to unhinge your jaw
not enough “creme”
hard semi-sweetness + powdery aftertaste = severe dry mouth
granular, grubby, sandy, sooty, unclean,undusted, unswept
vanilla dirt

I think that sums it up.

Still, if you’re like me, and enjoy eating cookies even if you have to block out the current experience and project onto it memories of Girl Scout deliveries, or whatever, then you will probably be perfectly happy eating Char Vanilla Creme Sandwiches.

Me using the empty box as a phone with which to say, “Thank you!” to my beautiful boyfriend, who I’ve disguised here as a leprechaun uni-bomber.

Take away the toast (ugh gimme toast) and you’ve got a...

Tue, 01 Jan 2013 12:40:24 -0500

Take away the toast (ugh gimme toast) and you’ve got a perfect gluten-free breakfast!

HAPPY NEW YEAR, TUMMIES.

*Beautiful thumb courtesy of boyfriend

Milwaukee Still Doubtful About Existence of Gluten

Wed, 26 Dec 2012 16:17:14 -0500

Milwaukee Still Doubtful About Existence of Gluten

Merry Christmas!

Tue, 25 Dec 2012 10:58:27 -0500

These are the worst bars ever.

Shame on you, Michael Smulders.

Merry Peanut Butter

Wed, 19 Dec 2012 13:52:00 -0500

Me on my exercise ball thinking about peanut butter.

When I was little I had trouble making friends because I enjoyed solitary activities such as building “ant castles” out of grass or eating peanut butter with my bare hands. On the rare occasions that children my age would agree to come over, I would propose games like this one: “Why don’t we take this jar of peanut butter, eat as much as we can, and whoever’s mouth gets stuck first wins?”

I still love peanut butter but have recently found that eating it from the actual jar in huge quantities leads to balance/coordination issues/my butt becoming a swollen entity with a mind of its own. Enough spoonfuls and I’m walking along knocking staplers off coworkers’ desks. My body and my butt become two separate animals. You can hear my stomach growling through my butt from like five yards off (digestion issues from the glue-like peanut butter), and in general I meander around like two people in a horse costume, only one of them is on roller skates and the other is walking on stilts.

Anyway, it really helps when I can find gluten-free items that taste like peanut butter, but are secretly made of dates or whatever. Larabar’s peanut butter cookie is nice. Really nice. So is their peanut butter jelly thing. But peanut butter Clif Bars will stick in your stomach like cement, and, Luna Bar, Clif’s more “ladylike” spinoff, is equally treacherous—at least for me. Like Clif, Luna Bar is mostly rice but not exactly gluten free, and comes in peanut butter flavors. I ate one the other day and almost pooped myself on the subsequent walk to work—only I didn’t poop myself, which was a major triumph for me.

Let’s take a moment of silence to commemorate my victory.

Also, to Clif’s credit, after taking over both healthy male and female demographics (classic Clif, and Luna Bar, respectively), they’ve also reached out to those of us with spiders in our stomachs. Kit’s Organic is a gluten-free alternative to the other bars. It is shockingly tiny (maybe three inches long?) and not very good. Greasier and less convincingly peanut buttery than the Larabar versions.

So, in conclusion, Clif can suck both of my dicks. But a big thank you to my boyfriend for providing all the promotional materials (bars) described herein!

I love you, man.

Happy Hanukkah from San Francisco!

Sat, 08 Dec 2012 00:00:00 -0500

Turkeys are gluten-free!

Good Taste in the Big Easy

Thu, 06 Dec 2012 16:34:00 -0500

My boyfriend and I just got back from New Orleans, where, among other things, we tried on a lot of masks.

He also got me pretty much every Larabar that I haven’t sampled yet so I could enjoy well rounded breakfasts and potentially adjust my attitude regarding Larabar.

Here are the results!

Cherry Pie: like the sticky sweet skin of a corpse

Pecan Pie: palatable but a little weird—kind of like uncooked pie crust?

Peanut Butter Cookie: OH MY GOD SO GOOD TASTES LIKE PEANUT BUTTER MY FAVORITE FOOD and great with coffee

Peanut Butter and Jelly: actually tastes like PB&J (my favorite food for eight years before I came to associate it with sandwiches/bread/the stuff that made me shart myself semi-regularly) and I love it

Apple Pie: hard to place this one…tastes a little bit like a fermented paper bag

Conclusion: this holiday season, I am thankful for my handsome boyfriend—pictured here wearing a particularly fetching mask and standing in front of a butt sculpture.

Above: Nana and Papa serve me gluten-free breakfast atop the...

Mon, 05 Nov 2012 15:50:00 -0500

Above: Nana and Papa serve me gluten-free breakfast atop the printed out pages of their various grandchildren’s’ blogs.

Going to see my grandparents is the social highlight of my month. They are both in their mid-eighties, which basically means they are time travelers. This makes them more interesting than anyone I know.

Me: So was it really like in Mad Men, where nobody wore their seat belts?

Nana: The kids would crawl around the seats like animals. Sometimes I would give them dramamine so they would stop crawling. Shelly had a bad reaction once and it made her crawl even faster.

Papa: We threw all our garbage straight out the window. Right onto the highway.

Me: Did you have pets in the car, too?

Papa: I don’t remember. Margie, you love animals.

Nana: I do. I really do.

Me: Nana, did you have a lot of animals growing up?

Papa: Oh, she loved animals.

Nana: I had a dog but the neighbor killed it.

Me: Wait what?

Nana: He kept goats. He gave me one of his goats but it turned out you had to bottle feed it three times a day. I brought it back and then he killed my dog.

Me: It sounds like he might have been in love with you.

Nana: Oh I don’t know about that.

Papa: People have always been in love with your Nana.

Me: Papa, I bet before you came along it was crazy.

Papa: Even after. You know our friend John Tucker?

Me: You mean that old man who comes on family vacations with us?

Papa: I always tell him, “John, you son of a bitch, I’m going to outlive you, and you’ll never get my wife.” Ha! [Glances casually at Nana.] We need to see if he’s still alive.

Nana: Oh yes. It’s been three days.

Me: [Laughing uncomfortably at the uncomfortable realization that they are so old that three days is a long time and pretty much everyone they’ve ever known is dead.]

Papa: Now what are you giggling about, you little silly?

Me: I just love you guys is all.

Nana: We love you so much.

Papa: Yes, you’re just fine. Now eat some bread.

Me: Right. Thanks so much for getting me gluten-free bred. And gluten-free crackers. And cookies… [Making grateful noises while chewing] This is great bread. It tastes like the real thing.

Papa: Well you know you’re meant to take it with you when you leave. The whole rest of the loaf.

Me: Oh, I couldn’t. Don’t you want it?

Papa: [Disgusted] I’m not fixing to eat any of that gluten whatever bread.

Me: I love you.

Nana: There’s an apricot muffin for your breakfast, honey. It doesn’t have any gluten either, does it Russ?

Papa: No. It doesn’t.

Me: I love you both so much.

Papa: Well we love you too, all right? You make us feel young. Now keep eating all that bread. There you go.

What Am I Getting At Here?

Thu, 01 Nov 2012 15:13:00 -0400

Sometimes homesickness leads to gluten sickness.

It turns out it’s hard to make new friends after moving to a new place if the only people you see on a daily basis are your coworkers and the schizophrenic street people prowling the path you take to those coworkers, and if you don’t live in a real “neighborhood” per se.

I basically live at the mall. When I walk out the front door of my apartment building people dart around me in a frenzy, laden with shopping bags, shouting about extra value meals. My apartment is conveniently situated between a Burger King and a Forever 21, if that helps conjure it for you.

I live on the eighth floor. Sometimes as I step over the threshold into my living room there’s this moment where I can still hear the distant rumble of shoppers down below and I pretend there’s a riot going on and I’m conveniently stranded at the top of a very tall tower—where, in any other circumstance, I might see myself as trapped. My heart yells, “Pull up the drawbridge! Loose the alligators into the moat!” and I yank the door closed behind me with a whoosh and a thunk, smiling like a crazy person.

My boyfriend gets home from work before I do. He watches me come in—sees my expression askew, my heart beating in my neck—and runs over, asking softly, “What is it, honey bunches of oats? What’s on my baby’s mind?”

And then: “Honey, put me down, please?”—because in my animal excitement I have yanked him off the ground. I’m not particularly brawny but I’ve heard that in moments of real panic human beings are capable of great strength.

You know the stories. Cars crash into water, some ten-year-old escapes and pedals to the surface, gasping—then dives back down into the dark, like a million meters or whatever, to bust through the driver’s window with her tiny fists and unbuckle her mother.

So I put down my boyfriend eventually, but not before injuring my lower back with a bear hug that speaks loudly of a certain kind of loneliness—one that comes from being almost constantly surrounded by bodies without anyone to actually talk to. My coworkers clock out at 5PM, wave goodbye, and step out into their private lives. The unmedicated personalities I encounter at pedestrian crossings on my way to the office change so rapidly and shout such offensive things that it is hard to get attached. I am a secret fan of the elderly man I saw today wearing a “NO SEX” placard who rolled his eyes and roared at me, “You rub your butt on your sister!” (which is true). But that doesn’t mean I want to sit down and have a heart-to-heart with him. And heart-to-hearts are basically the only form of conversation I’m interested in.

In other words, I have grown ornery—which is the word for lonely if your loneliness has aged like cheese to the point of reeking. Lonely for what my psychologist affectionately calls, “human interaction.” So a few weeks ago I blurted out to one of my coworkers that I missed all my friends and had nothing to do—knowing full well that his girlfriend would call me that weekend out of pity and invite me somewhere, which she did.

We went to Delores Park and unfurled fleece blankets. It was unseasonably warm and the manicured grounds were packed—though not as crowded as Central Park or The High Line would have been on such a day, which was a relief because it made me feel slightly less nostalgic for New York. Other girls showed up and chattered back and forth about “last Friday”, when apparently someone had gotten black out drunk, and that was unexpected, so they were laughing. They drank and I smiled frantically, fighting the urge to throw my arms around each of them—not because I loved them or was desperate to be there, but because I wasn’t sure how else to interact. It had been a while since I’d done anything, really, with anyone but my boyfriend. With him I have the kind of rapport where physical touch often replaces the need for verbalization. They were all talking about people I didn’t know. I was having trouble finding the words.

Just then a teenage girl scampered by wearing a long skirt—her elbow crooked under the handle of a wicker basket the size of a rolled up sleeping bag.

“Edibles?” she asked brightly, making eye contact with each of us. She swiftly turned her gaze to the next blanket of strangers. “Edibles?” Within a few seconds she was gone.

“What are edibles?” I asked. My new friends explained the concept to me.

Why did not everyone want these edibles? I wondered.

“We grew up here,” they explained.

“Old hat, eh?” I punched one of them playfully in the arm because I don’t know how to make friends. “Well, I grew up in Wisconsin, so”—before I could finish the thought I was sprinting toward the teenage angel with the giant basket.

“Are they gluten-free?” I asked sheepishly, holding out a wad of cash.

She bit her lip. “Eh, maybe?”

“So, no.” I smiled, trying to look nonchalant. San Franciscans are notoriously accommodating of practically any food preference. But I still worry that I’ll sound like an annoying fad dieter.

Plus I was buying edibles. I wanted to sound cool and use all the right lingo. “Well, whatever,” I said, making a small, pfft noise. “Let’s do this thang—thing.” She shrugged, I shrugged. Five bucks exchanged hands. I crammed the whole edible thing in my mouth and walked back to my blanket, where I silently laid down and spread my body into a sort of plus sign position while the girls around me laughed about other things.

About an hour later someone asked me, quietly and nonjudgementally, “So, how ya doing?” I recognized the tone—it’s one I’ve grown used to since moving here. It’s a native San Franciscan tone—belonging to a voice that has since childhood shrugged off bearded drag queens, men lounging in the Castro wearing only their cock rings, and women pooping in plain view on the sidewalk. A tone that has seen everything, presumes to judge nothing, and yet fends off heart-to-hearts by saying things like, “How ya doing?” instead of, “Are you okay?” “Are you freaking out?” “Are you about to shit yourself?” Because it wants the answer to none of these things.

“So, how ya doing?” she asked again.

My stomach growled and I beamed, squinting at the clouds just beyond her interesting hair. “Well it kind of feels like I ate a brick,” I told her. “But man is that sky is pleasant as fuck.”

"Why does everything that's gluten-free have to taste like witch's cookies?"

Tue, 16 Oct 2012 17:05:00 -0400

First of all, Renee got me these pretty amazing “grown-up gloves” for my birthday. I feel very sophisticated. A little like Jackie O if Jackie O ever shit herself.

Also, my boyfriend got me something for my birthday! A painting of a dog. Because I love dogs almost as much as I love my boyfriend, and because my boyfriend hates them—so the new compromise is that instead of ever actually getting a dog, we will decorate our home with them.

We’ll see.

Anyway, leading to this dog painting was a trail of gluten-free bars for me to sample and rate here. Per usual, I will try to be ruthless—with the time-honored, overall conclusion being that my boyfriend is so wonderful that sometimes when I see him I’m not sure if what I’m feeling is love or an actual heart attack.

But about those bars. Some are better than others and some are poison. Read carefully.

Larabar Chocolate Coconut Chew

So, first things first: I smelled this and was like, “No I shouldn’t eat that.” Then I ate it, and spit it onto my boss’s lap. Thus proving my therapist right when she said I should a.) trust myself and b.) not regurgitate onto my boss.

Anyway, in my unprofessional-but-somehow-employed opinion, Larabar’s Chocolate Coconut Chew tastes like human bones excavated from Pompeii, pulverized, and then mixed with stale dates. Seriously this might not be actual food.

Here’s another way to put it:

“A rich bouquet of putrid fruit and volcanic ash” ~ an ad I wrote just now for Larabar’s Chocolate Coconut Chew (you’re welcome love Kathleen)

Conclusion: No.

The Pure Bar

Ugh. This comes in two forms that I know of: Cherry Cashew (red), and Blueberry Garbage (blue).

I hated both at first. The blue one especially. I still hate the blue one but now I eat the red one almost every day—mostly because it is at the front counter of Coffee Bean and Tea Leaf and a.) I love their coffee, so b.) it’s convenient, and c.) after a while you can get used to anything. I mean let’s be serious: North Koreans incorporate grass and dirt into their cooking. I actually crave it now.

So I guess in a way this is a plug for Pure Organic Cherry Cashew*—but just to warn you it has to grow on you. I can’t remember, really, what I thought about it before I started swallowing it whole every day but I have a feeling the reaction was something along the lines of:

“Why does everything that’s gluten free have to taste like witch’s cookies?” ~ a (probably unfair) first reaction and (possible) ad slogan for Pure Organic Cherry Cashew Bar by me, for free, you’re welcome.

Conclusion: I guess this is my life now.

Larabar Coconut Cream Pie

Surprisingly good! I mean, not great, but given that it’s manufactured by the same company that made Chocolate Chernobyl Chew, I’d say we’re making progress here. What else is there to say, really?

Conclusion: if you like coconut, and are sick of eating breakfast bars that taste like what my boyfriend might describe as the “inside of a sick man’s inner ass”**—then I say go for it.

NoGii Gluten-Free

So surprisingly good that I ate the entire thing and licked my fingers even though I was already full from eating all the aforementioned trash. I’m pretty sure I ingested the chocolate peanut butter one, but have also (since) sampled the chocolate mint and like that too.

Fact of the matter: these taste like normal bars—like delicious, high-calorie, granola bars. Not like diet bars—not like gluten-free or sugar-free or “let’s put some human poop in them just because they all taste like that anyway and if we don’t some skinny lady might not think they’re healthy” bars. NoGii bars taste like something you want to eat.

Conclusion: weird smiling lady, good bar. Eat me, gluten.

Another day. Another compromise.***

*stay far, far away from the blue one; it tastes like a marker.

**for those of you following any of the recent plagiarism scandals, this is an example of self-plagiarism.

***I would like to note here that while I struggle to find gluten-free products that taste like real bagels or actual Halloween candy, some people have real problems. Like cancer.

For those of you who have ever wondered, “What is...

Thu, 27 Sep 2012 15:02:53 -0400

For those of you who have ever wondered, “What is gluten?” here is a can of it.

Ah, Mo’z cafe. Nice people, great service—and now it...

Sun, 23 Sep 2012 14:16:00 -0400

Ah, Mo’z cafe. Nice people, great service—and now it turns out they also have delicious gluten-free snacks to savor with your coffee. The brownies have little marshmallows and are squishy and involve real sugar and I love them.

But my boyfriend would like to offer a dissenting opinion, which is that these brownies taste like the inside of a sick man’s inner ass.

After saying this, he glared at me for like ten minutes because he figured I know him well enough to’ve guessed he might’ve felt that way, and yet fed it to him anyway.

“Are you out to get me?” he muttered, squinting.

“No! Little Bear, how could I have known it would taste like a sick man’s ass to you?”

“Do you even love me?”

“You know I think we have different palates. Like how sometimes you drink from the pickle jar and the other day I caught you eating my cooking juice.”

“You mean that Tupperware thing of olive oil and chopped garlic and onions and habanero peppers we keep in the fridge?”

“Yes.”

“That was delicious.”

“Right well I think I’m going to give the brownie thing a good rating. Maybe like a billion stars.”

Conclusion: my boyfriend bought a great thing and he’s a complicated man and I love him.

PS: As you can see from the above photo, these brownies were made with equipment used to handle gluten products, so someone with celiac probably shouldn’t be shoving them in their face—and that’s my Post Script PSA! Sincerely Kathleen

Happy birthday to me!!!!1 Also: “PENGUINO: BETTER THAN...

Thu, 20 Sep 2012 16:09:53 -0400

"Well, another year older, another year closer to death" ~ a thing I said while sitting on my birthday throne.

And by "throne" I mean my boyfriend's lap which is like a sexier version of a throne and also warmer

Happy birthday to me!!!!1

Also:

“PENGUINO: BETTER THAN PENGUIN MEAT” ~ an ad I wrote just now for Mariposa’s Penguino cupcakes*

*no but seriously they’re delicious go buy all of them.

"A wise man once said that vacations turn your heart into a butterfly."

Mon, 10 Sep 2012 18:56:00 -0400

That’s actually a quote I made up.

I intended to chronicle some of the better gluten-free meals here, but the whole thing is sort of a rapturous blur. I’ve decided that the point of vacations is they’re supposed to be sort of fuzzy because you were so relaxed the whole time. And by that I mean I drank heartily on mine and often to the point of black out.

Suffice it to say (based on photographic evidence) that I ate a lot of unpasteurized cheese. I ate hard cheese and soft cheese—and this one basically liquid cheese where I remember every bite tasted like a different kind of animal meat. Have you ever eaten cheese that tastes like bacon? Well, I have. And now I can face death squarely in the face without flashing back to a bunch of missed opportunities.

In other news, we took a lot of photos by historic fountains, where we adjusted the perspective so that it would look like I was peeing. We thought this was hilarious because we were drunk.

In conclusion, the only thing wrong with vacations is that eventually you have to come home. As I write this, I am back at work—squarely situated atop my ergonomic “Exercise Ball” and idly wondering how many unnecessary trips I can take to the bathroom without making it look like I have diarrhea. I just ate this week’s gluten-free snack—something called a “granola plank” ® (creative slant on “granola bar”?)—which was gifted to me by my always generous, always wonderful, boy-“takes me on vacation”-friend.

It was disgusting.

But nine million hugs to my boyfriend for setting up so many delicious reference points.

Big news for my heart and stomach! The boyfriend is taking me...

Mon, 20 Aug 2012 20:07:00 -0400

I SEE FOOD I EAT FOOD

MMMM/BLEGH

Big news for my heart and stomach! The boyfriend is taking me to Europe, where I will eat all the things and then write about it here.

And yes I’m bragging.

In other news, during a meeting ten minutes ago I accidentally ate some Spicy Siracha Peas, which it turns out have wheat in them, and now my tummy hurts.

Bye!

In Which Thai Food Makes Everyone Sensitive

Tue, 07 Aug 2012 19:18:00 -0400

Yesterday my company had a catered lunch. It was delicious. There was curry rice and and regular rice, and some sort of beef thing. Basically all stuff that I could eat, so I ate a lot of it, and kept on going.

At one point I even had the urge to remove my pants, which were starting to not fit, so that I could eat more. But obviously I didn’t do that because even though I have no manners and discuss my poop online I am very professional always wear clothes, even in the bathtub.

Anyway, a few hours after lunch, my 4’11” coworker, Christine, kicked her tiny feet below her desk, and posed the following question:

“Is anyone else having weird stomach repercussions from our lunch?”

She said it calmly and pleasantly, even peacefully—and without that tell-tale forehead sweat that communicates gastrointestinal emergency—deftly relaying to the rest of us that she was referring to something far less extreme than food poisoning, and we should not be too alarmed.

“Check,” responded Renee, continuing to type away at her computer. She nodded soulfully. ”Huge repercussions.”

“I pooped twice just now since we’ve been talking about it!” said my boss.

I was stunned. Not necessarily that my boss—a man who wears bow-ties and collects tea-cups—had said the word, “poop”, but because I’d convinced myself that I was the only one in the office who occasionally passed gas into her work slacks. In fact, up until that moment, I’d been sitting there swelling with Thai food, totally convinced that I would have to go and live in the forest like an animal.

But it was not so. I was not alone. And if gaseousness meant banishment to the woods, then my coworkers and I would form a colony. Relief bloomed inside me like a smile in the shape of a flower, and then turned out to be another fart.

So, a big thank you to my coworkers. I know you’re all reading this, since per usual I embedded the above blog post in a seemingly work-related link, reading “Related To This Morning’s Meeting”, and mass emailed it to the entire company. I love you guys, and next time I find myself curled up in a ball on the floor of a dirty restaurant bathroom, I will think of you, and of this afternoon’s overshare.

Oh, and just an FYI: those links I sent you ten minutes ago are not actually “Very Important Informations Click Here,” but rather YouTube videos of puppies so small they couldn’t possibly be real.

PS so as not to make this seem like too much of a digression from the apparent premise of this blog, I have included the above photo of me hugging my boyfriend’s head.

In Which My Stomach Rolls Over In It's Grave, Stands Up, and Does a Dance

Fri, 27 Jul 2012 14:05:00 -0400

The love of my life: pictured here chugging a Sierra Nevada Torpedo while presenting me with treasure!

So, I just finished an entire box of Pamela’s gluten-free Chunky Chocolate Chip Gourmet All Natural (gluten-free) Cookies™. What can I say? Pamela’s cookies whisper sweet nothings to your tummy and burgle all your self-control.

I guess the fact that I couldn’t stop once I’d started sort of speaks for itself. Nevertheless, here are some more thoughts…mostly because I’ve ingested so much sugar that my fingers are moving on their own and I might as well use them to type.

1. IT’S SO GOOD, SOO GOOD, SUGAR IN MY VEINS OMGgggG

Despite being packaged in an aesthetically dated box, bearing a geometric pattern that could very well have been the backdrop for my 1990’s middle school ID photo, Pamela’s gluten-free Chunky Chocolate Chip Gourmet All Natural (gluten-free) Cookies™ are delicious.

3. OMG CALL 911 MY STOMACH IS TOO HAPPY IT’S LIKE A PARTY IN THERE

While eating these cookies my body (and especially my digestive tract) exploded with (figurative) heart-shapes. Behold!

“Gluten-Free Heart-Shape Explosiongasm”

4. MINE, ALL COOKIES, MINE

Pamela’s gluten-free Chunky Chocolate Chip Gourmet All Natural (gluten-free) Cookies™ lack that chalky taste, are soft without being bendy (which is ideal, because bendy cookies are only semi-permeable, and tend toward a disappointing consistency when dunked in milk), and each one is sized so that I didn’t have to pack my mouth with 3-5 just to “fill up the empty space”, a tendency that commonly results in my boyfriend nervously whispering into my hair while administering the Heimlich Maneuver.

Thanks Pamela!

Conclusion: No but seriously, I love you, mine.

Mine, mine, mine.*

*The above sentiment pertains to both my sweet-hearted boyfriend and Chunky Chocolate Chip Gourmet All Natural (gluten-free) Cookies™ (AKA The Best Things Ever on Earth/Even Outer Space…At Least Until I Get Sick of Them and Find Something As Good, Or Better™)

“WELCOME HOME, MY BASTION OF COURAGE, MY BELOVED/BEARDED...

Tue, 17 Jul 2012 00:11:00 -0400

EVEN THE BOX TASTES GOOD

First, you eat a little bit of the box..

Then you cram your mouth with crunch!

Step 3: digest.

Warning: creates werewolf hunger.

“WELCOME HOME, MY BASTION OF COURAGE, MY BELOVED/BEARDED BOY SCOUT, MY GYPSY KING! Now get in here and let me hold you.” ~ a sign I put on our door the night my boyfriend got back from his aforementioned Man Trip.

Not only did my boyfriend brave the jungles of Ottawa, he also smuggled gluten-free Canadian foodstuffs from there to here for my consumption! Including CocoMira Maple Crunch, which might actually be one of the best gluten-free desserts ever.

“Why is CocoMira Maple Crunch so good? Because it’s gluten-free but when you put it in your mouth it doesn’t taste like somebody replaced a bunch of the ingredients with ash from their butt*” ~ a possible ad I wrote for CocoMira

To be fair, even when it’s not being compared to a grosser norm, CocoMira Maple Crunch is objectively very good; every single person who I forced to eat it and then regurgitate it back into my mouth so that none of it would be wasted thought so.

Conclusion: my boyfriend got a scarily intense hug, both because of the CocoMira and because I’d missed him. And then I howled for CocoMira the way a werewolf might howl for the moon**.

**No but seriously there is a distinct possibility that CocoMira Maple Crunch has actually turned me into a werewolf. See above.

In Which Independence Day Leads to Independently Made...

Wed, 04 Jul 2012 17:41:00 -0400

In Which Independence Day Leads to Independently Made Gluten-Free Decisions

Happy fourth of July! While my boyfriend is off fighting in the jungle, I am in charge of picking out my own gluten-free snacks, and today I have decided to give Mariposa another try by indulging in like a whole box of their gluten-free chocolate fudge donuts decorated with red, white and blue sprinkles.

The above video chronicles my honest reaction.