Did you...add cinnamon?

There was an eerie quiet at the lunch table one Sunday.

I walked into the dining room and found my husband and kids seated at their usual places, two on the right and two on the left. There was a bowl of hamburger gravy over rice at the center of each placemat, with the accompanying napkins, flatware, and glasses.

I sat self-consciously at my place across from Jim as all five faces swiveled expectantly toward mine. I couldn’t read their identical expressions, but felt as though I was missing something.

“Go ahead and eat,” Jim encouraged me. I picked up my fork and took a tentative bite. The gravy and rice tasted…fine. There was an extra ingredient I couldn’t quite identify, though. It was palatable but not delicious. “Did you…put cinnamon in it?” I asked Jim.

Nope. Banana.

He had decided to use up the ripe bananas by "hiding" them in hamburger gravy. The kids erupted in hysterical giggles. While none of us will allow Jim to make it again, the kids always joke that banana gravy should be our family recipe tradition.

Passing down favorite recipes from generation to generation is a universal delight. My childhood was frosted with my Grandma Kathryn’s decorator icing and her signature chocolate cake. Lent tasted of my Great-grandma Gert’s muffins served with her daughter’s extraordinary dish lovingly referred to as Egg Junk. My mom perfected pie crusts and chocolate pudding, and casseroles like her cheesy broccoli bake and her green bean casserole. From scratch was the anthem of my youth: we never baked with boxed mixes, those horrors of horror.

Making and offering food for another person is an intensely personal gift, and sharing a meal with others is deeply bonding. Snacks and potlucks commonly feature prominently during meetings, book clubs, classes, celebrations, and even athletic events. Each Mass itself is a meal: during the Liturgy of the Eucharist, we break bread together as Jesus offered Himself to us as the Bread of Life, and together we consume the Body and Blood of Christ. When a person declines our offer of food, we often feel rejected and hurt, especially if we’ve spent a lot of time or consideration on said edible offering.

Food allergies throw a monkey wrench in this essential building-block of community. Altogether, our kids are allergic to 25 different foods. Twenty-five. None has an identical list of offending foods, so meal preparation is often a well-orchestrated dance. Until I started just cooking one meal that accommodates all allergens, a simple meal like spaghetti required two pots of noodles: one wheat, one rice. Two pans of sauce: one marinara with meat, the other just meat. Two sheet pans of garlic bread: one with wheat bread, garlic butter, and mozzarella, the other wheat-free with garlic and olive oil. I look longingly upon families who can snag a large pizza on a stressful night to have a quick and easy meal: in our house, pizza usually looks like savory gluten-free muffins--from scratch--studded with sausage and pepperoni, bell peppers and onions, served dipped in marinara for those lucky enough to not be allergic to tomatoes, and topped with shredded cheese for those lucky enough to not be allergic to milk.

Given all of this, the holidays are particularly stressful for our family. Even with an exceptionally supportive extended family who are the envy of many, spending Thanksgiving dinner with us is a sacrifice. Some of our kids can’t be in the same room as tree nuts or peanuts, which means that pecan pie or Waldorf salad, beloved staples to many holiday tables, are verboten when we are present.

It’s easy for me to get swept up in the minutiae of holiday prep: we always take along our own meal in addition to sides to share with the group in order to be sure that we stay safe while celebrating. I tick of my lists and make sure the kids each know which food items are safe and which are not. Often, the grandmas and aunties have special desserts on hand so our kids feel seen and loved. We take a very no-nonsense approach to the kids’ allergies: the real world is not going to delete their food allergens from their proximity, so we don’t either (as long as it isn’t unsafe). I insist that the kids really don’t mind, that they are super flexible about sharing meals.

But.

There is a deep sadness that I will never prepare my childhood favorite meals to share with our kids. There is a grief knowing that the recipes I substitute are just that: substitutions. Well-meaning guests taste our latest favorite meals and shrug, “well, it’s really very good…for being dairy-free.” Or wheat-free. Or egg-free. Which really means, “It’s not quite the same…but kind of close.”

It’s jarring to know that two of our kids don’t enjoy eating enough to be able to tell me what their favorite meal is. I try to chase that weird grief away because I know that it could be worse. That there are children in our community who cannot tolerate any foods and rely on feeding tubes and formula. There are children suffering from all manner of tragic and debilitating illnesses. Feeling sorry for our kids’ food allergies feels selfish and un-grateful. But it’s also real. It’s still a struggle.

And yet.

Our kids love to bake and cook. They spend time together watching The Great British Baking Show and The Great Food Truck Road Race. They imitate Buddy Valastro and decorate cakes. They find new flavors that appeal to them: current favorite ingredients include fresh ginger and turmeric--flavors I had never previously considered. Our eldest son loves putting cinnamon in everything from hot chocolate (using coconut milk instead of dairy) and on toast (using wheat-free bread and nut-soy-pea-dairy-free margarine). One son loves grilling meat and veggies in the backyard rain or shine, and our youngest loves assembling sandwiches and baking desserts. Our daughter has perfected cake doughnuts and often throws something delicious into the crockpot. They aren’t afraid to take risks and try new things. They keep an eye on each other and have deep compassion for other kids who have similar diagnoses. They teach me every day to take meal-planning less seriously and less personally, and they teach me to try new recipes.

However. They know never to secretly hide bananas in any dish, sweet or savory. Just in case.