My emotions about having Celiac Disease are clearly tied to memories of my childhood -- food rituals, dining experiences, family. This is perhaps why last week's family reunion was by far my greatest dietary challenge.
The Wilberts love to eat. And my recent trip back to the Jersey Shore -- where I spent my summers as a child -- was a reminder of distinctive personalities and their voracious appetites.
Truly, nothing much but age has changed since our past summer visits together. The same family dynamics, same etiquette, and same dialects still present themselves both at the beach and picnic table, quite literally.
"The cousins," as my immediate family refers to them, are Southern. Kentucky met New Jersey and produced four offspring that now span from Indiana and Tennessee.
Billy, Danny, David, and Brian ("the cousins") are essentially just bigger, older versions of how I remember them as youth. I am still "Julie Poolie," the sister they never had. Jimmy (my older brother), is still just as popularly sought after now as then -- as if he's a movie star.
Aunt Sue continues to make a wonderfully thin-crusted blueberry pie. Dad still sneaks off to bakeries for a newspaper and almond pastry puffs. (Yes, plural). Jimmy still sleeps until noon, while everyone else consumes an entire morning assembling for the beach.
Cousin Billy, the eldest, still drives a minivan littered with empty soda cans and junk food wrappers. His lackadaisical attitude got us lost going to Jenkin's boardwalk amusements just like the olden days. Itching to arrive at the salt-smeared rides, everyone's "I know how to get there!" always trumped the last person's wrong directions. Only this time, Van Halen's, "Why Can't This Be Love" wasn't blaring on the car stereo.
Amidst the chaos, tempers, immature humor, and FOOD, a sense of being enclosed in some sort of Wilbert family cocoon has always engulfed me. It's as if nothing else outside this family exists when we're all together. No one is ever left out or lost and if you wander, they'll want to know where you are, where you were.
They'll come find you because it's always time to play or eat.
***
Thank goodness the salt water taffy was gluten-free because it just about killed me to be in those bakeries or at the picnic table eying Aunt Sue's pies, pretending hard that I didn't care. At least I could chew out my frustrations on that sticky, gummy taffy.
Better yet, I was able to enjoy Jersey peaches, corn, and beets. Dad boiled an entire bag of beets for me that I had later peeled and sliced for the potluck. They didn't go over very well. In fact, cousin David referred to them as "the Devil's nectar."
The cousins' children wanted to know why I couldn't eat certain things and they seemed to like learning this new word, gluten. But for the most part, the adults didn't discuss it unless I brought it up myself.
I came close to cheating on my diet when a lattice-topped strawberry pie (I think dad bought this from the bakery), sat like a centerpiece at my table. I actually asked if I could have a small piece but Troy was there to intercept, knowing full well how awful I'd feel days later.
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It's been a week since I left new and old memories at the Jersey Shore. I'm home now in my controlled environment, not nearly exciting or chaotic as the Wilbert cocoon.
