"Are the ingredients gluten free?" Yes.
"Do you fry them here?" Yes.
"Do you have a dedicated fryer?" Yes.
"Does anything else go in the fryer with the chips?" No. No, we don't fry anything else with them.
"Are you sure?" Yes.
"Are you positive nothing else goes in the fryer?" Yes.
So, I ate the chips with measured glee. The green salsa was divine--tasted like it could have had pineapple in it. And then out of left field I see our server heading for me like a baseball player diving for a line drive.
"Stop eating the chips! Don't eat any more chips!" He said breathlessly. Apparently the chip fryer was a shared fryer.
How'd the ball get dropped? I don't know. Sometimes they just get past you. But you still have to pick it up and try not to let it mess with your head.
"Do you think you got glutened?" asked my friend.
All I could think was, "I don't know. I don't want to be. I'm not going to be. If I am, I'm going to muscle my way through it like I have for the past fourteen years before I knew I had celiac disease. And the last thing I'm going to do is talk about it at a dinner table full of guests." I smiled through and maybe I laughed a little too loud at jokes but I didn't enjoy the rest of my meal. I just couldn't.
That was five days ago.
I did pretty well. I almost faked myself out. I blamed my irrational thoughts and irritablity on my hormones. I blamed my fatigue on the fact that our a/c had gone out. I blamed my itchy skin on the pool water. And I tried really, really hard to ignore the nagging pain that was getting worse under my right rib.
I dropped the ball. I let myself be glutened. So I took a little dirt-nap? I'm brushing myself off and getting back in the game.
I'll go back to the play book and see if I can make some different calls next time.
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