Because I am a Celiac, I live dangerously every time I eat out at a restaurant. Gluten particles are sticky and cross contamination is a constant threat. So I wasn’t shocked when I had a gluten reaction from an unknown source. Could have been the cheeseburger I ate with my daughter. Even though it was wrapped in lettuce, I doubt the cook changed his gloves when handling my meal.

What did infuriate me was it happened on Solstice, the night I was to join my friends and howl at the moon around a bonfire while waiting for the longest night to end. Instead, I spent the night howling at my toilet bowl, waiting for another long night of stomach pain to end.

Believe me, if I could eat gluten I would. There is no such thing as Gluten Free sour dough bread (sorry, I’ve tried them all and they all suck). I’ve never had a Krispy Cream donut. When I went to Mardi Gras I spent two days throwing up, and not from alcohol poisoning. Of course, no one believed me as I hurled in a gutter on Bourbon Street. “Amateur” someone yelled.

No, just a celiac.

But my husband did his best to make me feel better. After our daughter went to the bed and my diarrhea subsided, we climbed up on the roof and watched the stars gleam in the frozen sky. I sipped a little wine, determined to celebrate because I’m stubborn that way, and talked about what a crazy year it had been. And then later, when I needed to spend more time in the bathroom, he handed me this:

Suddenly, I felt a lot better.

Happy Solstice everyone!