Some of my meat-space friends know I don't always have an appetite.
I love to taste your food, but I can't get too much of it in my mouth without feeling... full. Queasy. Unwanting to eat.
I was lying in bed yesterday, with the New York Times and a big glass of buttermilk. I love, love, buttermilk. Cranky brings me a glass every morning because he wants me to get enough nutrients, and he knows I can't always feel enthusiastic about supper.
I turned to him and said, "Isn't it neat that we wake up so happy together?"
And then in about half an hour, I felt sick.
It was a usual pattern. My dairy "breakfast," unwanted lunch, and unwanted dinner.
I think I'm not a total dumbass, but it took me years to get to this. I whimpered to myself: "Why do I wake up feeling good, and then I drink a glass of buttermilk — what's the harm? — and start feeling bad."
BOINK! BINGO! BREAKTHROUGH!
I looked up lactose intolerance symptoms on the Internet, seriously expecting not to fit the profile at all. It would be too easy, and nothing is ever too easy.
But. I fit the profile, even though I'm a white person of Northern European extraction. We don't GET lactose intolerance. Except a few of us do. And more, as we age...
OK, disclaimer. I have not been checked out by a physician on this matter. I took things into my own hands, and today, I skipped the buttermilk.
Well! Hungry for lunch was I!
Cranky wanted to make a Greek Salad, but not hungry for feta cheese was I.
Yoda, I mean Cranky, toasted up some local walnuts and made a beautiful platter. Why aren't we all eating more walnuts? (Except for you who are allergic to tree nuts; gosh, now I understand.)
It was good.