i don’t know the first thing about being “gluten-free.” fat free, sugar free, calorie free, yes, but gluten?

we’re at dinner and i overhear one of the ladies say, “oh, she didn’t join us because she’s gluten-free. she has to prepare her own meals.” another other lady says, “so am i.  i manage to find something to eat. she should have told me.”

i’m standing there like, gluten what? does that mean free of taste? free of flavor? free of anything that would add a pound? cuz i could wrap my hand around lady number one’s bicep and feel her humerus. the other lady, not so much. she joined us for dinner and while i enjoyed ancho rubbed pork tenderloin, she had a plate of sliced carrots, cucumbers, and a pile of what looked like poo speckled with peppercorns but my trained iron chef eye knew it was hummus.

i thought, and you paid for that? go to the grocery store!

i’m gluten-free. as if that’s some within the culinary hierarchy nestled between vegan and vegetarian. riiiight.  i’ll take a side of swine with mine, thanks.

who are these people?  can’t eat this, won’t drink that, wearing  a cowboy hat for sun protection? yes indeed, white women are strange birds.

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