The other day I went to visit my grandmother and I left with fresh cut roses and kielbasa. I had to look at my stash when I walked back to the car and smirk–that’s about right from a Polish grandmother. Those were in exchange for a rice cooker I gave her. I accepted the kielbasa even though I can’t eat it–it’s not gluten-free. It was for my husband. But the exchange made me realize just how much food barter, exchange and sharing shapes our relationships. After decades of feeding me, my grandmother just can’t accept that I leave empty-handed, or worse, hungry. So I lie. “Yes, I ate just a few minutes before. A most delicious meal.” Yet I can smell the remnant odor of a recently cooked soup and my stomach is growling, but I can’t eat it because I’ll be sick. The sucky side of celiac. Continue reading