Edible Memoir

I’m not sure how informed you are about food intolerances; perhaps you have one or two yourself or perhaps you can eat everything under the sun, either way, the following will be a musing about food intolerances, more specifically, I will expound on my unfortunate, recently discovered potato intolerance.

I recently discovered that one can develop food intolerances or even allergies well into your adulthood. At some point on the umpteenth hairpin turn along the Amalfi coast, I gestured to the driver that if he didn’t pull over now, I would be redecorating the inside of his car. Staring into the wild plants of the Italian seacoast, I pondered whether this was more than a simple hangover, but it wouldn’t be until years later that I took this question to a professional. After endless questions and a couple of tests from said professional, I am now the proud owner of intolerances to nightshades and fruit prepared with sugar.

For some reason, in which I can’t explain today, I took the “no fruit with sugar” as a suggestion, but the potato thing? Boy oh boy, it’s my new religion. Removing potatoes from my diet solved my motion sickness better than any dramamine could. At one point I thought I had IBS due to a painful period in which certain movements were definitely not regular. But IBS it was not. It’s now been 3 years, and I haven’t looked back. Well actually, that’s a lie, I cheated my diet a few times, and the consequences are just rarely worth the pain, but apparently I have short-term memory issues, so I’ll probably diverge from the plan at some point in the near future.

Potatoes are part of a larger food group warmly referred to as nightshades. So yes, I should probably avoid all the nightshades, but I let the other nightshades slide, because I just can’t, simply cannot, live life by taking away all the fun stuff. In my head, eggplants, bell-peppers, tomatoes, even sweet potato just don’t count.

Let’s be honest, potato is the boring cousin in the nightshade family anyway. Tomatoes bring the acidity and brightness to your pasta sauce. Eggplants offer that silky texture after being roasted with olive oil. Bell peppers add crunch and sweetness to your fajitas. But potatoes? They’re just… there. The plain Jane, the vanilla ice cream, the missionary position of vegetables. (Sorry, potato lovers, but I need to justify my selective nightshade elimination somehow.)

After three years sans potatoes, I was forced to find alternatives for some of my favorite dishes. French fries? Sweet potato fries. Mashed potatoes? Rice or cauliflower. Potato chips? Tortilla chips, Doritos, Cheetos, Fritos. Potato hash? Rutabaga, turnips, and butternut squash. Eggs Benedict with a side of hash browns? No, no, just swap the English muffin and hash browns for some heartier polenta. Honestly, by avoiding potatoes, I’ve discovered more delicious variations and food ingredients I probably would never have tried if I wasn’t desperate.

That being said, you would be surprised how hard it is to avoid potatoes, many meals, dishes, and food items contain potatoes or some kind of potato-y substance, and I’m right with you on every surprise. Every time I check the ingredient list, I’m always shocked to see potato starch where it was not invited. Like why does Spam have potato starch? The potato industry has clearly infiltrated every corner of the processed food world. Potato starch in yogurt? Come on. Modified potato starch in your chicken nuggets? Unnecessary. Potato protein in your protein bar? The audacity!

And don’t get me started on restaurants. “Does this contain potatoes?” I ask the server, who looks at me like I’ve just asked if the dish contains uranium. The blank stare, followed by, “Let me check with the kitchen,” only to return five minutes later with a vague, “The chef says no, but there might be some potato starch in the sauce.” Great, so I’m playing gastrointestinal Russian roulette tonight.

And for some reason, I’m convinced that my potato intolerance doesn’t exist outside of the United States of America. There might be a bit of a placebo effect playing a part, but I choose to live in intentional blissful ignorance. Perhaps my positive thinking steels my stomach against the dreaded nightshade and mayhaps the abundance of alcohol that accompanies the meal could be the reason I have temporary motion sickness. Even if there isn’t any truth behind this, you have to admit that food in the United States is poisoning us one pesticide, chemically infused ingredient at a time.

My theory is strengthened almost every time I travel abroad. Somehow, I can devour a plate of patatas bravas in Madrid without consequence. Even the potato gnocchi in Rome slides down without protest from my usually vigilant digestive system. Either European potatoes are fundamentally different creatures, or my body simply decides to cooperate with my vacation aspirations.

I say “almost” because Greece recently proved to be the glaring exception to my international potato immunity. Those deceptively golden Greek potatoes? Diabolical. Wretched. My stomach declared a full-scale revolution that had me becoming intimately familiar with every bathroom in Athens. Whatever unholy preparation method they’re using in Greece, my body rejected it with the fury of Zeus hurling thunderbolts. So perhaps my theory needs refinement, Mediterranean immunity, with a specific Hellenic exclusion clause.

Barring the Greek potato incident, either European potatoes are fundamentally different creatures, or my body simply decides to cooperate with my vacation aspirations in most other countries.

Perhaps it’s the American potato’s feelings of entitlement that my body rejects. Our potatoes are pumped full of pesticides, grown in depleted soil, and harvested before their time, they’re rushed to market with the same frantic energy as everything else in our go-go-go culture. Meanwhile, that Italian potato was probably serenaded by an elderly farmer, gently coaxed from the earth while classical music played in the background, and allowed to bask in the Mediterranean sun before being lovingly prepared.

Regardless of the reason, I’ll continue to indulge in my selective potato avoidance, making exceptions for travel and special occasions, because sometimes, the cultural experience is worth the risk of spending an extra hour, or extra day in the hotel bathroom. After all, life’s too short to pass up a perfect Spanish tortilla. The stomach pain is temporary, but the memories of those forbidden potato delights? Those are forever.

And isn’t that what food is all about anyway? The joy, the risk, the occasional dramatic dash to the nearest restroom? It’s all part of the grand culinary adventure, nightshades and all.