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I can’t tell you how many times I have been asked, “So, do you and your husband have food allergies?”

No, I reply, most usually in a voice predicting and imitating the surprise that always appears on the asker’s face. Like I can’t believe it either. No, we’ve never had any food allergies.

(I can eat buckets of peanut butter cookies–the food we once decided would be the absolute end of the Oddnivore if he were to consume it–without repercussion. Without blinking.)

I wonder if the fact that I am asked this question so often speaks to the prevalent longing of many that everything, ever, should somehow logically spawned from something or someone else. Origin known. Or we want it to be. A known origin gives us exceptional comfort–we like to point to THAT, that made THIS–even when THIS is anything but comforting. At least THIS is rooted. At least we can blame THAT.

So there is disquiet that the Oddnivore’s allergies seem rootless. No matter how much I wish it were otherwise, logic can’t puzzle this one out. So we go forward, without knowing why, yet knowing that forward is the only option.

Perhaps we have been saved from our own musings by the practical nature of his need–the Oddnivore just wants his grilled veggie cheese on tapioca bread on time. A hungry Oddnivore is a surly one–just like his mother.

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