Friday, July 30, 2010

A Train Ride through France

I never understood why Meg Ryan made such a big deal about lactose intolerance in the movie French Kiss. I always thought her moaning and stomach clutching was a bit over the top and a poor substitute for the dinner scene in When Harry Met Sally. I thought that, anyway, until I developed lactose intolerance myself. Now drinking milk, eating cheese or indulging in ice cream has become a practice in torture.

It took me awhile to figure out what was going on. One doctor told me I had gallstones (I didn't), another put me on four different medications (which didn't help), and another told me to eat nothing but chicken broth and rice (not going to happen). After a horrible experience involving tomato soup, a cheese sandwich and a trip to urgent care, I figured out I just needed to cut out the dairy in my diet to live in peace. I switched to soy, stopped buying cheese and cut "cream sauce" from my culinary vocabulary.

The only problem is that I find myself dreaming of chocolate milk, cheesecake and heaping bowls of cream-covered, fresh Louisiana strawberries. What I wouldn't do to be able to take that last little sugary sip after finishing my cereal in the morning without the horrible after-taste of soy beans. I want to go to an Italian and order both the Alfredo dish and a cannoli for desert. And to be able to enjoy an ice cream run with my friends without having to suffer the consequences an hour later? I might just sell my soul for that.

I have no self control. I can't help it that ice cream might not solve any problems, but it sure does make the world look like a better place for a little while. Or that yogurt is the fastest, easiest thing to eat in the morning. Or that I don't want to be an osteoporosis nightmare before I hit menopause. I want dairy, dammit!

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