The Buffet Line of Death

When I was a kid, my favorite restaurant was Old Country Buffet. I thought it was absolutely magical that I could pick and choose a bite of this, a scoop of that. As a family of five we rarely ordered appetizers, drinks, or dessert when we went out to eat at a regular restaurant because my parents had more important things to spend their money on like, you know, all of that orthodontia and education.

But at Old Country Buffet, I could pick and choose. I didn't have to decide between the mashed potatoes and the scalloped ones - I could have a spoonful of each! If I wanted both a brownie and a cinnamon roll? Well, so be it. It was glorious.

When I was older, I met and married my husband and we would visit his mom out in Los Angeles, where she'd take us to the Castaways Restaurant, a restaurant high in the hills over Burbank. Castaways has a ridiculously delicious brunch buffet. French toast, fresh fruit, prime rib, and mimosas. Mmmm...

This is my husband and I in the Castaways parking lot two years ago after one such brunch. Just out of the frame of this picture are our happy, happy tummies.

I now lament the loss of my buffet days. If you are new to being gluten free, BEWARE the buffet. Just steer clear entirely, trust me.

For us gf folks, buffets are off the table (haha! pun!). We never know if the tongs from the bread basket have migrated over to the salad. We're never sure that a crumb from the casserole isn't lurking in the fruit salad. Alas.

I've tried to overcome the buffet curse. At my seminary graduation awards breakfast, I was the very first person in line (This involved some light sprinting, I'll admit. Not very Christian or ladylike.). It was an awards breakfast, after all, and I wanted in on it.

Plus, I was hungry and fairly new to the gf world, so I didn't want to be the only weird one at a table full of strangers eating from a Ziploc full of almonds. How terribly uncool.

I selected fresh fruit--watermelon, pineapple, and cantaloupe--and scrambled eggs. Not a very exciting awards brunch (there was some prime rib and bacon at the end of that buffet line...), but something safe. Or so I thought.

From half an hour after my first forkful of food up until the moment the graduation march began, I was huddled in a tiny and medieval bathroom in the basement of the University Chapel. (Too much information, I'm sure, but one should never underestimate the danger of a buffet). I managed to pep-talk my way out for that all-important graduation ceremony, repeating the phrase, "My grandparents are here, all the way from Michigan! They drove many many hours for this moment! I WILL go up there!!!"

I made it through the ceremony (barely), but I felt seriously crummy for days afterwards. Was it the watermelon? The seasoning on the eggs? A stray croissant crumb? I'll never know. But it doesn't matter. The fact remains: buffets are for the non-gluten intolerant among us. For us buffets = off-limits.

Pass me a glass of punch, and don't worry, I think I have some almonds stashed in my purse...