I’ve had celiac disease for years, and somewhere along the way, I just gave up on bread. Gluten-free loaves are expensive, often disappointing, and honestly, I stopped missing them. But the other day, I was hit with a craving so specific it couldn’t be ignored: a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. Not a rice cake, not a lettuce wrap—an actual sandwich. So I splurged on a loaf of gluten-free bread. It felt indulgent, nostalgic even. I made my sandwich, took a bite, and for a moment, it was everything. Until I noticed something that completely threw me off.
As I neared the end of the loaf, I realized there was an odd number of slices. Odd. As in, not even. As in, one slice left behind with no partner. I stared at it like it had betrayed me. Bread eaters—tell me, is this normal? Because it bothered me more than it should have. I’d waited so long to enjoy this simple pleasure, and now I was left with a single, lonely slice. It felt like a metaphor for something deeper, though I couldn’t quite say what.
Maybe it’s because when you live with celiac, food becomes a minefield. You learn to read every label, question every ingredient, and guard your kitchen like a fortress. I even label my peanut butter and jelly jars so my husband doesn’t dip his gluten-covered knife into them. It’s not paranoia—it’s survival. So when I finally let myself enjoy something as innocent as a PB&J, I want it to be perfect. Balanced. Symmetrical. And that rogue slice? It threw off the whole ritual.
I know it sounds dramatic, but food isn’t just fuel when you have dietary restrictions—it’s emotional. It’s memory. It’s control in a world where your body often feels out of your hands. That odd slice reminded me that even when I try to reclaim something simple, there’s always a catch. Always a reminder that I’m playing by different rules. And sometimes, those rules feel unfair in the smallest, most ridiculous ways.
Still, I’m glad I bought the loaf. That sandwich was worth it. It reminded me that I can still have moments of joy, even if they come with a side of frustration. I’ll probably toast that last slice, slather it with peanut butter, and eat it defiantly. No banana, though—I’m mildly allergic. Just me, my gluten-free slice, and a quiet rebellion against the absurdity of it all. Because sometimes, that’s all you can do.
So here I am, one slice short of a perfect sandwich experience, but oddly satisfied. Maybe next time I’ll bake my own loaf and make sure it’s even. Or maybe I’ll just keep laughing at how something so small can feel so big. Either way, I’ve learned this: in the world of gluten-free living, even bread has drama. And I’m here for it.
