Oatmeal and Agave Saga

The Mystery That Was Hiding in My Pantry

Ten years gluten-free — and the hardest, longest accidental glutening of my life taught me to listen more carefully. To labels. And to that quiet little voice.

Somewhere back in this blog’s history, I proudly wrote that “it took me six years before I stopped getting sick by accident.” Well — I have to amend that. Because even after ten years gluten-free, I’m telling you today that I was still getting sick by accident. What I’m about to share was the worst gluten contamination I’ve had, and the longest stretch of sickness I’ve endured since I gave up gluten back in 2000.

And the culprit was sitting in my pantry the whole time.

The mystery that took two years to solve

The story begins in a grocery aisle, maybe a year and a half to two years ago. I was standing in front of the grains and cereals, reaching for the oatmeal — Bob’s Red Mill. And I remember exactly what went through my mind: Oh good, they carry Bob’s Red Mill — they have a dedicated gluten-free facility. I’ve read that on their packaging before. I’m a very visual learner, and I could picture in my mind precisely where I’d seen it.

So I turned the package over and over…looking for the words “gluten-free.” And they weren’t there. Nothing about a gluten-free facility. Nothing about gluten-free fields. Nothing at all. But my mind pressed on: If they invested so much in gluten-free oats, surely these are fine…I’m positive I’ve seen it on their label before.

And then came that little voice inside — the one I so desperately wish I had listened to more carefully — quietly asking me if those oats were really okay. I actually paused. I stood there and debated it. And then I hurried past the doubt, grabbed three packages of the regular rolled oats and three of the thick-cut, and dropped all six into my cart. They were bought. They went into the special refrigerator I keep just for my seeds, nuts, and grains. And they were eaten — two or three times a week — for well over... a year.

Then last week, my husband walked in holding a package of Bob’s Red Mill Gluten-Free oats. I looked at his package. I looked at the one from my pantry. And I shot up out of my chair: “AHA! The mystery is SOLVED!”

I sat down and played back two years of my life — two years of being inexplicably, exhaustingly sick, with about one cup of that oatmeal left in the bag to show for it.

All my wild theories — while the answer sat on the shelf

You have to understand how hard I’d searched. I was so fatigued, so many days a week, and I could not figure out the source. So I joked with my husband about two things:

One — that surely the water coming to our house must run through a wheat granary before it reached our faucet. Two — that I felt healthy every time we went to our other home in Fillmore, and I’d start to dread coming home to Eagle Mountain, because something here was clearly making me sick.

Was it my makeup? My lotions? My shampoo? An emotional trigger (which really can mimic the same symptoms)? A cross-contaminated condiment? My pans? Did I need to replace all my cutting boards? I wondered and searched and wondered some more — for far too long. I had even started telling my husband that, for my health’s sake, we needed to pack up and move to Fillmore. And the whole time, the answer was quietly waiting in a bag of oatmeal.

I’d always felt weak after eating that oatmeal — but I’d blamed the carbs, told myself it was the sweeteners, and (thank goodness) kept my portions tiny. Little did I know it was laced with gluten.

The lesson, in case it spares you two years

Regular oats are not gluten-free — even from a wonderful company that also makes a certified gluten-free line. My mistake was grabbing the regular oats from memory. Bob’s Red Mill makes certified gluten-free oats — but you have to buy the package that actually says so.

Read the label every single time, even on brands and products you’re “sure” about. If the words “gluten-free” aren’t on it, it isn’t.

If that quiet little voice hesitates, put it back. Mine tried to warn me. I wish I’d listened.

What it cost me — and what carried me through

Here I am now,  24 weeks pregnant, and for the first time in a couple of years, I can feel my strength returning — and, most precious of all, my mental strength.

Because those sick years took a quiet toll, my church attendance began to suffer, and my husband would gently tease that I’d become his “inactive” wife. But there were mornings he’d leave for church and I would lie in bed with tears streaming down my face — because deep down I knew who I really was, even when my body wouldn’t cooperate and no one else could see it. I just had to trust that the Lord knew who I really was, and knew there was a reason for my “inactivity.”

That’s the thing that has sustained me through every trial: holding onto the truth of who I am — that girl from years ago who loved life so fiercely she tried to squeeze every possible activity into her days so she’d never miss a thing. Remembering her is what keeps me searching for answers, every single time my health throws me a new mystery.

The Agave Saga

Speaking of things not being what they seem — I recently learned that most of the agave on our shelves isn’t made the way Native Mexican farmers have traditionally made it for thousands of years. So much of what we’ve been buying is a heavily processed shadow of the real thing. It saddens me — it’s exactly the kind of thing the Word of Wisdom warned about, the “designs of conspiring men in the last days” — and yet it also lights a fire in me to do something about it. If not for anyone else, then for my own family.

And that fire isn’t new. It was planted in me a long time ago.

Where it all took root

I grew up with a half-acre garden. My mom grew practically every berry bush, fruit tree, nut tree, and vegetable our climate would allow. We raised rabbits, chickens, and pigs — I remember helping my mom pluck the chickens. My stepdad kept bees, and oh, that fresh honeycomb was heaven.

So many of my sweetest childhood memories are tangled up in that big yard: walking barefoot through freshly plowed soil, helping to weed and water, wandering row to row picking fresh peas and cherry tomatoes, then disappearing into berry bushes as tall as I was and eating until my belly was full. And our underground food storage — rows and rows of home-canned fruit, vegetables, pie filling, soups, meats, beans, and pickles.

Now that I’m a full-time mom again, it’s my joy to carry that tradition forward for my own children.

No, I can’t enjoy a warm slice of homemade wheat bread, or rolls, or a bowl of pasta. But I’ve made peace with the intolerance God gave me — truly, I’ve come to see it as a blessing. I’m grateful for all of it: for what I’ve learned, and for the wisdom my struggles keep handing me. And this last lesson was a big one — a reminder to listen to those quiet promptings. I had my doubts before I ever bought those oats. Writing this all out, I’m still amazed I talked myself past them.

So if there are two things I can leave you with, they’re these:

When in doubt…do NOT buy.

And if it tastes too good…it must NOT be gluten-free! 😉

Good luck navigating this gluten-filled world, friend. You’ve got this.

Love,

Steffanie