So in my eternal quest for the fountain of youth, early this year I ventured out to see a naturopath who came highly recommended to me. Doctor D., utilizing a combination of tiny vials of elixirs, my arm as a see-saw, and what I can only describe as hocus-pocus, concluded that I was allergic to wheat, coffee, tomatoes, corn, and black pepper. And as such, I should stop eating wheat, in particular, as it exacerbates my eczema. Apparently this allergy is very common for people of Asian heritage, with millennia of years eating from the bounty of the rice paddies and all.
Willing to give great skin a good old college try, I said goodbye to bagels, beer, pasta and the man who twists pepper onto your dinner plate at finer establishments. This is, “a life not worth living!” some of my foodie friends shrieked. And while egg-white omelettes can get boring very quickly, Santa can attest, I’ve been pretty good all year. That is to say, until now. Maybe its the constant holiday music and my ever-growing Christmas to-do list that lulled and infiltrated my defences, but tis the season of turkey stuffing and grandma’s Irish shortbread (and I’m not Irish, so anyone’s grandma will do). Bread cubes baked with turkey juices and quality homemade Irish shortbread, these are my kryptonite. A blissful and too short-lived ecstasy followed by the hive-y kind of agony.
Thank goodness the naturopath didn’t say anything about wine!