I Love You But I'm Intolerant: Tales of a Lactose-Free Relationship
It figures. I forsake all in the name of love and then he tells me. I'm standing there in the kitchen, looking at him beseechingly, my eyes round saucers filled to the brim with tears. Round saucers that are now leaking. I worked so hard. For so long. Such effort, such vision -- wasted!
Him: 'I can't. Oh man, I'm sorry, but I just can't. No. Noooo. It'll never work, babe. I've tried before, and it's just no good. Really. I wouldn't lie to you. Not now. Not ever. And not about something this serious.'
Me: 'Please! Can't you just try? Just a little? For me? A tiny bit? It would mean so much. And it might be OK. How can you know for certain? You have to keep trying!'
He holds out his hand in a school crossing guard stopyourf'ingvehiclenow! gesture and says resolutely, "No. Absolutely not. I cannot, I will not, eat your sundriedtomatofreshherbsfromthegardenmadewithmorelovethanamanlikemedeserves goat cheese frittata. You know what cheeeeeese (said with great disdain) does to my gut.'
I set the frittata down with a bang. The little cheese wedges on the hotpad fabric mock me from beneath the heavy cast iron pan. Emotions course through me like waves of....milk. How. Is. It. Possible. Howisitpossible that a foodie like me, a girl with more cookbooks than shoes, a girl whose idea of a hot date is to peruse the Dean & Deluca catalogue over a glass of wine, a girl who gets wistful over Montrachet and downright delirious over a ripe triple cream, a girl who daydreams of making yogurt and slathers Plus Gras butter with arteries-be-damned abandon over thick slices of homemade bread on Sunday mornings, how is it that a cheesy girl like me has paired up with a somewhat indignant (ok, I know, that's mean, but I'm *hurt*) lactose intolerant bloke? Madness, I tell you. Love may be blind, but it shouldn't have to be dairy free.
'What is my fate?' I wordlessly wonder as I poke at the frittata with a fork. The goat cheese is ever so slightly golden and puffed, and a waft of thyme and rosemary send me swooning. I glance sideways, catching sight of him leaning against the counter on one hip, sipping apple juice. I return my gaze to the frittata, insert my fork, take a bite, and it's...heaven. A half dozen ingredients transformed in less than 20 minutes into something worthy of gods. But not lovers.
'Honey, what about that vegan almond cheese I like? Do you think you can make it with that?'
With that, the floodgates open. I cry for myself. And for all the fromage we'll never know.
Him: 'I can't. Oh man, I'm sorry, but I just can't. No. Noooo. It'll never work, babe. I've tried before, and it's just no good. Really. I wouldn't lie to you. Not now. Not ever. And not about something this serious.'
Me: 'Please! Can't you just try? Just a little? For me? A tiny bit? It would mean so much. And it might be OK. How can you know for certain? You have to keep trying!'
He holds out his hand in a school crossing guard stopyourf'ingvehiclenow! gesture and says resolutely, "No. Absolutely not. I cannot, I will not, eat your sundriedtomatofreshherbsfromthegardenmadewithmorelovethanamanlikemedeserves goat cheese frittata. You know what cheeeeeese (said with great disdain) does to my gut.'
I set the frittata down with a bang. The little cheese wedges on the hotpad fabric mock me from beneath the heavy cast iron pan. Emotions course through me like waves of....milk. How. Is. It. Possible. Howisitpossible that a foodie like me, a girl with more cookbooks than shoes, a girl whose idea of a hot date is to peruse the Dean & Deluca catalogue over a glass of wine, a girl who gets wistful over Montrachet and downright delirious over a ripe triple cream, a girl who daydreams of making yogurt and slathers Plus Gras butter with arteries-be-damned abandon over thick slices of homemade bread on Sunday mornings, how is it that a cheesy girl like me has paired up with a somewhat indignant (ok, I know, that's mean, but I'm *hurt*) lactose intolerant bloke? Madness, I tell you. Love may be blind, but it shouldn't have to be dairy free.
'What is my fate?' I wordlessly wonder as I poke at the frittata with a fork. The goat cheese is ever so slightly golden and puffed, and a waft of thyme and rosemary send me swooning. I glance sideways, catching sight of him leaning against the counter on one hip, sipping apple juice. I return my gaze to the frittata, insert my fork, take a bite, and it's...heaven. A half dozen ingredients transformed in less than 20 minutes into something worthy of gods. But not lovers.
'Honey, what about that vegan almond cheese I like? Do you think you can make it with that?'
With that, the floodgates open. I cry for myself. And for all the fromage we'll never know.
posted by WurdGurl at 8:33 PM
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