Looking out my Backdoor: It must have been something I ate

It seemed like it all happened at once. The heat broke. The rains came. And I spent the night hunched over the commode.

It is a wonderful thing when the heat breaks, more-so this year as we sweltered under an unrelenting heat bubble.

When the rains come, immediately the temperatures drop, 20 degrees this year. Plants of all species lift their heads and drink largely. Birds lift their beaks in the happiest of songs. Bugs of all descriptions line up outside my door, hoping for easy entry, all seeking a dry bed for the night.

The chicken stir-fry, graciously given to me by Tom next door, only had a couple leftover shrimps finely chopped into the entire huge panful of delicious goodness, not even enough for me to see the evidence. My stomach knew. Afterward.

This is a recent development in my life, this sensitivity to shrimp. Began about a year ago, after a sumptuous shrimp dinner at the elegant Restaurante Don Luis up the mountain. Proofed it with a dish of ceviche from another neighbor, the best I’ve ever eaten and I love ceviche. That was enough for me. I determined to never eat shrimp again. Nobody should ever be that sick.

This go-around it was invisible shrimp, innocently given and innocently received. Tom and Janet didn’t know I’d developed this reaction to shrimp and I didn’t know the chicken stir-fry, which I eagerly scarfed up, contained just that miniscule bit of the sea creature.

I did the thing I tell friends and family to avoid. I consulted the oracle of mis-information. It told me that one can develop allergies in old-age. It said, “Yes, Virginia, thou shalt eat no more of shellfish, including crustaceans and mollusks of any kind, or the by-products thereof.”

Shrimps, okay, I don’t mind. But no more crab cakes at JJ’s Fish House in Poulsbo. No more oysters on the half shell at the beach. No lobster. No calamari, no octopus, no clams. No scallops. The list is long.

It’s been several days, long enough for my plants to take on new life, for dead stalks to resurrect, for the sweetest gecko to take up residence in my house along the wall behind my computer desk.

I’m sure I’ll crawl out of my cave soon. This round of retching wiped out my entire physical system. I’ll get better. I will.

Please forgive me for popping in with a “Hi” and a “Bye.” It’s all I’ve got today.

——

Sondra Ashton grew up in Harlem but spent most of her adult life out of state. She returned to see the Hi-Line with a perspective of delight. After several years back in Harlem, Ashton is seeking new experiences in Etzatlan, Mexico. Once a Montanan, always. Read Ashton’s essays and other work at http://montanatumbleweed.blogspot.com/. Email [email protected].