Eggs

Date: Saturday, October 14th Time: 9:30 PM

Having an allergy is easy, but also frustrating for me to live with. That’s just me, though, how though? Well, let me try to recall “frustrating” moments, though it doesn’t seem like too much effort.

One of these frustrating times for me was when I was going to a restaurant with my cousins and our parents. As soon as we walked in, the smell hit me—that scent of scrambling eggs. My throat tightens reflexively. Usually, I don’t have airborne reactions, but looking back, I assumed it’s just the trauma response, I guess. While everyone else was excited about the "Bottomless Benedicts," which already sounds gross to me since I’m a picky eater, I was already scanning the menu for the "V" symbol or anything grilled.

Ordering is always the hardest part. I hate being that one person. The waiter was busy, rushing between tables, and I felt the familiar knot of anxiety in my stomach as I stopped him. "Does the veggie burger have a binder? Is the bun brushed with egg wash? Is the mayo house-made?" I always need to ask these questions. I don’t have a choice. I saw his eyes glaze over a bit, the nod where he looks like he’s regretting his life before he scribbled "ALLERGY" on his pad. I always wonder if they really tell the kitchen, or if they just think I’m being difficult.

When the food came, I stared at my plate for a full minute before taking a bite. It looked safe—just roasted potatoes and dry toast—but the fear of cross-contamination never fully goes away. Did they use the same spatula that flipped an omelet to scoop my potatoes? I took a small bite, waited, and checked my arms for rashes and waited for cramps. Safe.

Grocery shopping with my dad was next. It’s gotten better with clear labeling laws, but you can never let your guard down. I picked up a new brand of pasta sauce, assuming it was fine, only to see "albumin" buried in the ingredients list, and my dad said that he’s not going to get me that anyway. Also, why do they put egg in pasta sauce? Like, am I the problem or something?

People tell me, "At least it’s not peanuts," or "Just eat vegan," but they don't understand the mental load. It’s the constant vigilance. It’s the birthday cakes I need to decline, the weddings where I eat a granola bar in the bathroom because the buffet is unlabeled, and the anxiety of trusting a stranger with my life every time I walk into a restaurant.

But I’m home now. My kitchen is safe. My pans are clean. And honestly, after today, a simple bowl of egg-free pasta tastes like the best meal in the world just because I don't have to be afraid of it, because I trust myself with my food choices.x