EVIL! EVIL!

I’m totally ready to kick some ass. Some bagel ass. You see, I thought it would be super rad to have some bagels up in our house for Christmas brunch. I didn’t have a chance to get over to Culver City, where the best g-free bagels exist. And honestly, I’m so over bread that I have no problem serving up gluten-filled bagels when I have people over. You know people. People who eat gluten.

But something happened on Christmas, and now I swear on everything holy, I will never allow another bagel into my home again. Ever. Eff you bagels. EFF you. If you’re a fan of the bagel, you should really stop reading now.

Here’s what happened. I became a crazy control freak on Christmas and made everything gluten-free and by scratch. I honey glazed a rad ham, twice-baked some potatoes, gratin’d some spinach, did a salad thing, and made a creamy peanut butter pie. There was zero gluten in the food I prepared. Zero. Yet, I got super duper sick.

Sure, all that rich food could have done something to me. Maybe. But let’s not blame delicious ham and an abundance of dairy for things they don’t do. I mean that very non-kosher meal couldn’t have possibly been upsetting to a delicate constitution. It had to have been the bagels in the air. Please don’t interrupt. It WAS the bagels. There is simply no other peanut butter + stress explanation. NONE.

So instead of looking at the massive g-free gluttony, I’m going to blame it on the bagels that were on my dishes, in the air, and almost in my mouth when my two-year-old tried to “share” in a most aggressive manner. That makes sense, right?