We've come a long way from the days of Jack Sprat who could eat no fat and his unnamed wife who could eat no lean. Nowadays, eating disorders are as common as the common cold, and medical science apparently has no cure for peanut allergies and lactose intolerance either. A modern day Jack Sprat and their, we'd better call them their 'partner,' are only going to lick the platter clean if it's a portion-controlled serving of soy-based protein and macrobiotic rice the couple can share. I don't mean to make sport of such people. I'm related to some of them and such dietary restrictions are obviously no fun at all. But I wonder if these diagnoses are occasionally more the result of loosely interpreted tests and psychosomatic illness than actual issues with specific foods, and I especially wonder this when forced to eat gluten-free birthday cakes at family functions.
Recently, when attempting what is now the Herculean task of ordering just a regular coffee at a hipster cafe, I stood patiently in line while the customer in front of me asked the weary barista to recite what types of "alternative milks" the cafe offered. These included almond, oat, cashew and the ubiquitous soy. Decisions, decisions. Almond has a weird aftertaste, oat has an unpleasant mouthfeel, cashew is too buttery, and soy is passé. Eventually, the customer decided against coffee altogether and purchased a raspberry flavored soda water instead. As far as a sensitive stomach is concerned, I suppose dairy discretion is the better part of caffeine valor. After all, no gastroenterologist wants their patient abusing antacids for the sake of a mid-afternoon energy boost. When my own chance to order arrived, I briefly considered jokingly demanding a list of the various percentages of fat in the milks available: fat-free, one-percent, two-percent, whole-fat, half and half, and so on. However, a rather disturbed look in the barista's eyes persuaded me against any form of levity.
After requesting a regular, whatever that might turn out to be in modern cafe speak, I returned to my office carrying a coffee topped with milk of unknown fat content. I wasn't going to ask and the barista certainly wasn't going to tell me. I have no problems with lactose as far as I know, but the thought of nut-based creamers does make me vaguely nauseous. Fortunately, none of my colleagues had asked me to fetch a specific fat content or alternative milk laced coffee for them, so at least I would not be responsible for anyone else's dairy induced aggravated bowel condition.Nevertheless, seated at my desk, cautiously enjoying my beverage, I quickly updated the Jack Sprat rhyme thus: 'Jack Sprat passed excessive gas, his wife was constipated, and together both they looked up the symptoms of peptic ulcer.' Surely we will be hearing that echoing around the school playgrounds of America before too long.
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