My GammyBelly

Anyone who has the misfortune of knowing me far too intimately is also likely (and reluctantly) well-acquainted with my wondrously, superlatively messed-up stomach. Although part of its lovely and unique character might credited, in part, to the residual effects of an unfortunate introduction to bacterially-embellished raw cilantro while traipsing in Mexico City fifteen years ago, my issues originally stem back to childhood. Far more often than could've been deemed normal, I'd find myself lost in the haze of a crippling tummyache, clammy with sweat and curled up in fetal position on the floor or up against a wall at school, lessons, church, competitions, and home. No doctor could pinpoint a cause, although one did suggest ulcers. Add to that digestional quagmire the stereotypically-Asian syndrome of lactose intolerance, strange and inconsistent sensitivities to normal and unexpected foods, plus a perpetual case of the burps, and it's not hard to guess why I'm always super conscious ~ and cautious ~ about what I shove into my piehole.

And then again, on the other end of the spectrum, woe betide all if I don't get anything to eat, either.

When on the wrong side of the tipping point in overhunger, some people transform into Hyde, acting like belligerent drunks hellbent in violent need of their next liquid meal. Others become silent and stalky, quietly desperate to find anything to put in their stomachs lest they expire gracefully in gentle malnutrition like overwrought, scandalized Edwardian spinsters. I personally experience a breathtakingly painful reaction as my belly inflates with air and becomes grotesquely distended... visually akin to that of an Ethiopian poster child for famine. Overwhelmed with nauseating agony, I find myself torn with the knowledge that once I eat, the cramps will only hit dizzying heights until my body finally decides to release scentless air, and hopefully only through less offensive burps. Waistbands cut into my abdomen, exascerbating the anguish, and it takes a combination of time, food, and air expulsion before I can eventually find relief... a process which usually takes around an hour and a half to complete once I've successfully found the right kind of nourishment. And what sucks is I don't know a single other person who experiences this embarrassing and all-consuming biological malfunction, so I guess it makes me just that much more special. Not like I need it.

The problem is, I can't eat before I train or work out. It's neither recommended nor even desired, and out of consideration for my training partners and simple scheduling logistics, I usually wait until after classes to nosh properly. That said, I work out or train something almost every single day, and sometimes twice or occasionally three times a day (ie a 6:30am run, 10am Pilates class, and nighttime MA training), so I have a weird and irregular eating schedule. What's especially annoying about my digestive quirk is that it's incredibly hard to predict an onset as I usually feel absolutely fine, doing what I do normally. Then BLAM, even if I'd eaten something light not too long ago, I could still get taken down randomly with this bizarre... whatever-it-is.

This past Tuesday evening, my asinine tummy decided ~ rather inconveniently ~ that it was overhungry in the middle of training, when it was too late to get myself anything to eat. Just as we were switching gears to go from a grappling to kickboxing class, GammyBelly decided to become a drama queen and began puffing up and cramping while I was in the midst of a jumprope warm-up. Before the sweats got a solid chance to heavily envelop my body, I dropped my rope, ran to the car, and grabbed the last protein bar from our secret stash before she decided to completely ruin my evening. Luckily, the instructor was one of my closest friends and wasn't bothered when I quite disrespectfully devoured the bar on the mat during his class, and my training partner was such a cool and funny chica she encouraged and cheered every brap and scentless poof I needed to oust from my air-baby to feel better. She also crooned comfortingly whenever I needed to freeze, cringe, and wince in pain-cope mode, and we both took it more lightly with the skip knees and roundhouse kicks.

Despite Sassy Chiquita's sweet efforts, however, GammyBelly still hurt like hell, but I was so stubbornly obsessed with learning a Muay Thai combination desperately needed in my arsenal for the upcoming weekend I didn't dare stop and risk a lack of preparation. Luckily, GB was eventually appeased with the caloric intake of the yummy Zone Bar, and I gratefully exited the gym at the end of the night with surprisingly upright posture.

After getting home, helping the kids go over their homework, brushing and flossing their teeth, reading them a bedtime story, doling out squeezy hugs and smooshy kisses, answering bewildering questions, breaking down and administering more hugs and even more kisses, then showering off my workout mank, I forewent my generally favourite and instantly-gratifying meal of frozen berries topped with copious amounts of vanilla yoghourt and crunchy granola... and cooked.

Earlier that morning, after a particularly gruelling ~ yet elevating ~ Pilates class, I floated across the street to forage for some goodies and found three aging packages of wonderful mystery mushrooms (they were like a cross between chanterelles and shiitakes) on the clearance shelves of our local independent market, as well as some gorgeous bunches of my favourite green du jour, organic Swiss chard. Late that night, in a hot pan shimmering with olive oil, I tossed some generous doses of chopped fresh garlic and shallots, sautéed in the ridiculously luxurious mass of mystery mushrooms with loads of savoury cremini mushrooms Chef Boy had brought home on the weekend, added the crispy chard, and finished simmering the lot with approximately six healthy glugs of extra dry white vermouth, a touch of honey for sweetness, and four tipples of good balsamic vinegar, a long-ago gift from Coyote Girl. Polished off with a pinch of salt, a few revolutions of Indian Tellicherry pepper, and the juice of one plump lemon, I managed to pull off the most mouthwatering, meatiest-textured meal that wasn't meaty at all, and intensely satisfying in every possible way.

And my GammyBelly didn't hate me so much anymore.









(photo credit at top: an x-ray cataloguing stomach gasses from a wonderfully intriguing archive of French radiological imaging; photo credit at bottom: moi-même. Most of the photos I took without the aid of my untrusty flash made the dish closely resemble hypothetical piles of fungus-laden elephant shit. Chef Boy unkindly attested it looked like the entrails of a large bird, or decimated pig brains. I studiously ignored him and still managed to feast well.)