So for those who have followed the blog for a long time—and I mean a really long time—or who know me in real life, y’all know that I’m gluten free. Celiac is a giant heap o’ dog poo, but being GF beats barfing every day. I also come up as allergic to wheat (which came up after I gave up the wheat) so I got hit with the double whammy. Why does wheat hate me? Oh, yeah, because it’s delicious. Like I don’t totally miss a really good sour dough. I swear to god, a sourdough bowl is about as close to heaven as anything. Which means, I’ll never get to go there again. I had my chance, and I squandered it.
Anyway, my digestive system is a hot mess. Because I don’t have a gallbladder anymore, I have a really hard time with fat. I’m allergic to red meat. I can’t eat wheat. I’m not a huge fan of fish, but I’ll eat it under duress. At least my cholesterol is good, I guess.
M, the great and wonderful DH, is a Type I diabetic. His blood sugar goes wonky if he doesn’t have meat. Actually, it’s been wonky for about the last year, if we’re being honest. Like bad wonky, not, “huh, look at that” wonky. We’ve tried lots of things to make it not horrifically bad. We count carbs, I mixed up the grains (no wheat is allowed in my house, but otherwise, we’re good). We tried all of it. Quinoa, soy pasta, wild rice, brown rice, blah blah blah.
Well… It turns out that the diet that seems to suit him the best is Paleo.
Big breath. I agreed to do it with him. Me, the girl who loves sugar, as my replacement for bread. And love. But I think I just repeated myself. Aren’t those two words synonymous?
Now, I can cook, but some things I don’t play with. Like pasta. But today I had a hankering for gnocchi, so I found a sweet potato gnocchi that fit the diet.
It turned out great!
Hahahaha! No. This is real life, in a real kitchen, with a real non-chef at the helm.
Some of my gnocchi dissolved in the pot in which they were supposed to boil. It was like soup. Actually, soup looks good. Even bad soup still looks like there’s something redeemable about it. This, uh, did not. It looked like… I don’t even know. If success is angels weeping, or unicorns and rainbows, I suspect that this is some low-down Elder gods crap. No messing around with the minor gods, either. This is full on elder god vomit soup. (You know, if I ever write a cookbook, I’m going to have a recipe name “Elder God Vomit Soup.” It will be as good as it sounds) I’d describe it in more detail, but I would have to use more colorful language than I usually do on the blog. But trust me, words have flown, my friends. Words. Have. Flown.
So I was all, “I’m going to outsmart this gnocchi, for reals. I’m gonna show it who’s boss!” So I decided to just skip the sad boiling part, and move on to pan frying. I made sweet potato pancakes the other day and they were awesome, if awesome is a relative term. They were distinctly edible if one did not expect real pancakes. So this should work right?
Gnocchi laughed in my face. Like straight up labeled me it’s b****. It sort of started falling apart in the pan where I was trying to pan fry them. And by sort of, I mean it did. Sort of. I think the idea here is that I was “sort of” trying to pan fry them, and I sort of pan fried gnocchi into crumbs.
The kids were all excited, saying things like, “It smells so good!” Sure, kid, go ahead and give me your saddest face when I tell you that the pile of burnt crumbs in the pan is the gnocchi I was attempting to make. Uh huh. We all feel that way. Here’s a quarter. Now go watch some TV while Mama cries into a skillet. Yeah, I know you’re 12 and not falling for that quarter thing anymore. And yeah, I know I actually gave you a plastic penny I found at the bottom of my purse. Don’t judge. It could have been the really old breath mint that’s been down there since 2007. Consider yourself lucky.
Granted, my children are both accusing one another of passing gas, so who knows how these things actually smell. “Better than dog farts and tween feet” is not a resounding endorsement for my culinary skills.
So, next I resorted to baking the things. I mean, that should not turn out wretched, right? They’re in the oven right now.
And… they’re out. DH has gamely tried one. He is literally the least picky person on the planet. His response was, “It’s not… bad. Maybe it will be better next time?”
I’m not sure if it’s hope or fear I hear in his voice.
Looks like we’re having chicken.