Eating Out with Dietary Restrictions

When we had my sister- and brother-in-law over for the awesomeness that was the Holidazzle Parade, we thought it would be a great idea if we went to the parade and then went to grab a bite to eat. And, in a world where everything worked the way I wanted it to work, it would be just fine.

But, see, in case I haven't mentioned it approximately eighty million gazillion times, my husband has some pain in the ass dietary restrictions. When we eat at home, it's not a pain in the ass. We just deal with it in the menu planning and we know 1) the ingredients are all 100% safe, 2) the tools of our kitchen are 100% safe, and 3) there will be NO cross contamination of glutenous products in our kitchen. I keep a bread basket on top of the fridge for my mini bagels, I have my own peanut butter clearly marked with my name on it, and I have my own toaster. But when we eat out, it's a different story. Who the hell knows what's going on in the kitchen? You could have toast made on the same griddle as eggs and my husband will be sick for the next 36 hours.

Anyway, after Holidazzle, we went to one of our old standbys - a place on the edge of downtown known for it's mashed potatoes and balcony. But, of course, it was closed for a private holiday party. Plan B: Go to Uptown to another favorite restaurant where we know that there's at least one safe meal for the boy. Only, it turns out that this restaurant no longer exists and there's a new one to replace it. Plan C: Go to the so-so gluten-free place in our neighborhood. Before we drive over there, we google it on BB's cell phone to find that it, too, has closed. Maybe because its clientele was so limited. Maybe because it was so-s0.

Plan D: My in laws get Jimmy Johns (we're all pretty hungry at this point) and BB and I go home and make something in our kitchen.

Here's the thing: it's awful to be THAT person at the restaurant. But it's more awful for my husband to get sick.

And each time we eat at a new place, I handle it wrongly. I take charge and make BB seem like a kid who can't handle it himself. I make BB uncomfortable by pointing out all the potential sources of contamination. I make BB mad by saying the wrong thing to the waitress. It's a marriage tester every damn time. So now I hate eating out and I avoid it at all costs. It's a little thing and I know we save so much money by eating at home, but if I ever come visit you? Just know that eating out? It's not all that's cracked up to be for us. We'd rather make something in your kitchen, I pinky swear.

So we don't eat out. We now have two places we are comfortable with eating in the Twin Cities. It's a big area, but we just can't do it. It's too hard and it makes my stomach churn just thinking about it.

So that's our Achilles heel. We have a strong marriage that should never be tested by entering a restaurant. I often wonder what is the weak point for other marriages. Laundry? Sex? Dishes? Carpool? And then I remember that ours is not so bad.