the memory of wheat...

old thinking by lucy meskill
the tyranny of cans
that lurk expired
at the back of cabinets
pushing forward
the scent of fear
like rotting carrots,
liquefied and brown
rising tidal from
the bottom of the bin;
remembrances
that live untouchable
under and behind
forcing joy like a jumper
onto a sliver of a ledge
like a jar of golden amber honey
that lurching under pressure,
falls out unexpectedly
and bruises our foot
when we open the door…

I'm cleaning cabinets today, beginning to take out, touch, sort and tend to the thousands of little things that own me. Cleaning the places that never get cleaned.

I'm thinking that it's time to change or at least wipe down with lemon or vinegar the shelves that house my glasses, dishes, pots, pans and utensils. I am certain that the crocks housing my wooden spoons, stainless utensils, cheese planes and the Lazy-Lucy pasta strainer need to be washed.



And how about the spice cabinet and jars that get handled with buttery or olive oil covered hands while I'm cooking. I'm standing in the middle of my kitchen, and everywhere there are things that I touch and move and use every single day that don't get cleaned nearly enough, although it seems to me that I'm always cleaning. Yup, I'm thinking " I work for all of my stuff as much as it works for me" I'm exhausted and I haven't even begun.

Here is the cabinet where I used to store wheat, all kinds of wheat. Wheat, the food I can no longer tolerate, is oddly enough, the yardstick by which I judge so much of what I now consume. Breads I bake: "almost as good as wheat" Pies and Cakes: "not nearly as good as wheat" Gluten-free store bought bread: "can't compete with wheat".

The striving of the gluten-free community to create "wheat like products" is frustrating. I want to let go of wheat, I want to get all primitive, revel in flat breads and interesting crumbly crackers and forget that "wheat the almighty", the symbol of hearth and home and hospitality, ever had a hold on me. I want to stop measuring my success by this thing that makes me feel so terribly ill.

I want to not feel the tug of gluten as I walk by a bakery in Manhattan. Lose the urge to bite into a crusty piece of French bread slathered in butter while slivers of crust fall like crisp rain. I know now how an addict really feels.

Today while cleaning my cabinets I would like to begin anew the purging of my wheat memory, that place where exaggerated and romantic images of thickened sauces, bread and pastries linger and entice. Today I will begin again to let go of wheat, one moment at a time...