Today, I tried to make a pizza sandwich. To quicken the process, I used the broiler.
I also didn’t have pizza sauce, so I used tomato soup, which the bread quickly absorbed. Much like a sponge.
Someone needs to intervene.
This is a cry for help
This isn’t a cry for help. Until next time!
When I was a little kid, I was lactose intolerant. I use this excuse—I’m pretty sure it’s valid—to explain why I drank soy baby formula until I was six years old (maybe older, but I’m leaving it at six for the sake of my waning aspirational self). Isomil, I think, is what it was called, or “Sarah milk” in our house. Hey, at least I wasn’t the product of creepy attachment parenting, breastfeeding until I left for college… (Someone, take an icepick to my brain!)
Eventually I grew out of the lactose intolerance and began drinking normal milk like a human. I still did weird, borderline sociopathic things like microwaving ants and squishing caterpillars like tubes of toothpaste, but I could eat cheese pizza and mac ‘n’ cheese to my chubby little heart’s content.
Lately, though, things have taken a turn. Over the past week or so, whenever I eat something with a lot of cheese—like, say, pizza or pasta with cheese sauce—within half an hour I’m on the toilet praying to every divinity I can think of.
I’m hoping that maybe this is just some weird spell rather than the unwelcome return of lactose intolerance, but just to be safe I’m cutting out dairy for a while. Which means I’m essentially going to fast.
In a week or so, I’ll eat something really cheesy and see if it makes me feel like a wild animal is trying to claw its way out of my asshole. If not, I might be in the clear.
Keep your fingers crossed. In the meantime, I’ll be sharing some vegan-y recipes.