Fructose and spice and everything nice

So because I am a generally food-oriented person, I thought I'd blog some more about food.

I like food. In fact, I tend to be a relatively constant nibbler from the moment I get up until right before going to bed, popping into the kitchen at least every couple of hours to crunch at a Knusperbrot or snap off another piece from our pile of Tembadoro dark chocolate. It's not particularly much at a time; in fact, big meals make me uncomfortable and sluggish. But it's certainly constant. And I've always been this way -- even in second grade, I remember hating being forced to space out my energy intake into three hulking, inflexible, timed, official "meals" within a long day of school and homework and play. Not allowed to eat in the classrooms in high school, I would chomp carrots and string cheese walking down the hall from class to class, and then save pieces of my lunch for the bus on the way home.

Well, consarn it, I'm a grown-up now, and I'll eat how I want. If left to my own devices, the biggest meal of the day will be a bowl of oatmeal in the morning. This is then followed, over the next several hours, by an assortment of rye crackers with cheese, a hardboiled egg, a scoop of herring salad, some peanut butter right out of the jar, a bowl of mushroom soup, half an avocado, a piece of chocolate, some yogurt out of the tub, and, I dunno, a handful of almonds. I certainly get enough calories (especially if you factor in all the beer and wine that gets drunk around here!). I just don't like to take it all in at once. Maybe this supports Bert's proposition that I am, indeed, a bird. (Or a sheep?)

Herr Bert, on the other hand, will go for hours without even thinking of food. He'll maybe have a cup of coffee in the morning at work, and then sometimes not even take a lunch break and come home with nothing more in his system than that bite of cake from his coworker's birthday. I would be famished. Irritable, shaky, unable to think straight. But he's not even hungry! I try to be polite and space out my munching to coincide with his dinnertime; but usually (unfortunately) I'm so impatient that, within the time it takes to select an evening menu, chop the salad, boil the noodles, heat up the leftover sauce, and even -- good lord! -- make a grocery-store run, I've nibbled enough ingredients to be satisfied before he's even drained the pasta. Most of our "dinnertimes" consist of me sipping a glass of wine while he, with unfathomable patience, starts into the first real bite of anything he's had all day.

His way is probably more practical, not to mention polite. It certainly seems to fit much better with the rhythm of the rest of society, to be able to conform to scheduled big-meal times. But I tried to force myself into that habit for twenty-seven years, and finally, I'm done. I'll eat this banana on the train, thank you very much!

However, no sooner had I taken my rebellious, munchy stand than the situation got even more complicated: namely, the discovery last year that my body has a weird little condition (like 30% of bodies with central-European ancestry, actually, except that only some show symptoms!) called "fructose malabsorption." This means it doesn't produce enough of the enzyme fructase. Sort of akin to lactose intolerance, except with fructose: because I've slowly ceased, within the last few years, to be equipped to break down this complex sugar molecule, it simply passes merrily on through without being digested. Hooray! And like many cases of lactose intolerance, fructose malabsorption often develops in adulthood; but unlike lactose intolerance, there's no little pill to take to supply your body with the missing enzymes (probably because the condition is only just now being discovered instead of simply dismissed into the hazy category of "irritable bowel syndrome"). Other symptoms are fatigue, crankiness, and vitamin deficiency due to the inhibited nutrient absorption. Ah ha, I thought I'd always felt weird after eating apples. But who would have thought that fruit would be bad for you??

There are also some other pretty common foods that contain relatively high quantities of fructose, among them being honey and -- get this! -- wheat. Yep, wheat breaks down into long chains of fructose molecules. (So does spelt, which is an older relative of wheat.) I guess it makes sense, though. Continuing the discussion of artificial behavior patterns developed within the last hundred years, we weren't really meant to eat fruit all year round -- sweets, even less so. No wonder some bodies simply raise the white flag.

So now my eating habits are even weirder. Our cupboards are packed with rye and oats, and I've become a huge fan of the potato. Many vegetables are still a go, but apples and pears may as well have a "Mr. Yuck" sticker attached to them. (Remember Mr. Yuck? The green icky-face sticker that warns children away from poison? Ha ha, good old Mr. Yuck.) The fun part is trying to explain this to people -- especially when visiting an unfamiliar baker. I ask if they have anything 100% rye, and the resulting dialogue is quite predictable:

"No, but this one is mostly rye."

"What is 'mostly'?"

"60%."

"Hm. I'm looking for something without wheat or spelt."

They never hear the "or spelt" part. "Why, yes, we have this whole-grain spelt Health Bread."

"Spelt, you say?"

"Yes. Spelt is healthy."

"Wish I could, thanks. No 100% rye or oat?"

Now, they get snippy. It's like, they've been magnanimous enough to carry an alternative for the gluten-intolerant (for whom spelt is still not an acceptable substitute, by the way!), and now I don't want it? Well! "There is no such thing as 100% rye," they huff. "The most you will ever find is 90%!"

I refrain from mentioning that, in this Marvelous Land of Bread (Germany's lesser-known title, behind Land of Beer and Land of Chocolate), I have found quite a number of specimens in which, although the 2% of salt was listed among the ingredients, there was nary a mention of wheat. I thank them and seek my ryedical fortunes elsewhere.

The good thing about all this business, I guess, is that it keeps my hand out of the cookie jar. And frankly, I'd rather know what the problem is and be able to avoid it -- no matter how weird or impractical -- than enjoy that caramel apple and suffer the mysterious consequences later.

At least coffee, chocolate, and red wine are still on the "friend" list! And french fries. Viva la health food!