Pollyism of the week

Garlic. It’s good for your health and makes good food taste great. I always have a giant jar of crushed garlic in the fridge along with bunches of fresh cloves of the nutritious, delicious, stinking rose.

Life has changed, though. Garlic is now the ingredient that must not be mentioned in the home. You see, over the last couple of years, my partner Tim has developed a terrible allergy.

Oh, nothing normal like lactose or gluten – nope, it’s garlic. It started fairly innocently. He’d have aioli and then his tongue would go a little numb. Fast-forward a few months and it’s numb lips and tongue.

Then it really turned evil. Next step in the garlic versus Tim war was an upset-tum. That came with horrid pain and other dreadfully antisocial side effects. I ordered him to the doctor. He came back with a diet that excludes everything it would seem except oranges and corn chips (slight exaggeration), and a prescription that apparently would rid him of the pain and other nasties.

We tried this for a day or two, but it just didn’t cut it. I decided to turn myself in to a doctor/nutritionist and spent hours going through endless internet threads about people with similar problems. Dr Polly went on a mission to purchase probiotics, special tablets to take before having any dairy products, interesting herbs and spices to replace garlic, and lactose-free milk.

For a week, I handed him tablets before, tablets after and tablets with delightful meals, despite their lack of garlic and onion. Life got better. Life got infinitely better. No more tummy aches. No more pain. No gas. I was due for some Nobel Prize for medicinal science.

Then it happened. As we lay in bed watching the brilliant Fleabag on Amazon Prime, I heard a moan.

“Gotta go stand on the deck for a bit, babe,” he said. “Tummy upset. Wind.”

But how could this be? He’d had all his pills and potions. His coffee has been lactose-free all day. I’d made him steak and roasted vegetables for dinner.

When he came back to bed, still groaning, I was sitting up with arms folded. I had a sneaking suspicion he’d cheated on Dr Polly’s diet regime. “Darling,” I asked, “have you eaten something weird today?”

“I had spicy mie goreng with Derek at a Malaysian restaurant tonight,” was the sheepish reply.

“I’ve spent a bag of money on pills, days on the internet and hours slaving in the kitchen, only to have you go and sneak the most garlicladen food in the world?” I asked incredulously.

“Yes,” he said. “But don’t be nasty to me. I’m in agony!”

My arms remained folded. “Right, you’re on your own,” I declared. “I can’t believe you cheated on the perfect diet.” He moaned again. I added, “And I really hope you fart yourself into oblivion!” Men.