Devil's Food: How the Gluten Stole Christmas

“Are you sure you’re up for the task?” asked Melinda, my mother-in-law. “We give you kids appetizers because they’re easy and—hiccups—harder to mess up. I don’t think you can handle all of the gluten-free desserts for our Christmas gathering...event.”

While I certainly loved having her doubt my basic ability to follow instructions, I pressed on with my sweet proposal for sweets.

“Don’t worry, I’m sticking to an old family recipe,” I explained. “My Uncle Jim had celiac issues, so gluten-free was big in my family before it ever occurred to star-crossed Millennials to follow that trend, er, I mean, ‘path.’”

Her mumbling told me that she wasn’t convinced. Either that, or that she needed a refill of wine. Or she was at a McDonald’s drive thru. It was hard to tell with her these days. Come to think of it, I’m pretty sure she was taking a bath. I regret not signing off at this point, because she continued down a meandering path that she called a story, and I think it had something to do with Dan Rather, a pizza, and a volleyball.

I feigned a dying phone battery situation, but Melinda would not be denied.

“And...let...wait.” plop/splash. She’s just dropped her damn $1000 smartphone in the bath. “You still here, I mean...I...you still there?” I regrettably was, and told her as much, sans the ‘regrettably’ part. Miles to go before I get home, indeed.

***

I temporarily set aside the vision of my future—they say the daughter never falls far from the tree—and made plans to fulfill my task. No, my quest to provide the perfect gluten-free dessert that would please even the staunchest of self-styled culinary critics. In-laws, too.

Eons ago, I’d worked at a Red Robin that was as bullish about gluten avoidance as they were about customers with severe peanut allergies. Regarding the latter, the general manager always kept an EpiPen or five in his office. Unruly legumes can wreak havoc, and a complete change of cooking utensils and PPE was understandable, if inconvenient.

But gluten intolerance? After Googling the situation and thus becoming expert scientists, myself and my fellow cooks’ anger about full cooking station debridement because of that pesky protein reached an apex. We just “knew” that most of the customers ordering were going gluten-free to follow a trend, and that there was a 99% chance that they didn’t have Celiac’s disease.

Fast forward a few years, and I’m in charge of dessert for one of the 1,842 get-togethers that my in-laws love to host. This is a major coup for me, as any disruption of the familial politik with the potluck requires years of paperwork, permits, court appearances, blood work, clinical trials, and notarizations.

And that is before any of the party themes are addressed. Mardi Gras, Vegas, Prison in Iran, board games, Alcoholics Anonymous, and Botox removal were all fair thematic game for any given gathering. And you best keep them straight, lest you give good old Uncle Bruce a bottle of gin after he’s been off the wagon for years. Or brother-in-law (twice-removed) Andy a bevy of R-rated Big Easy beads when all he wants is some Dungeons and Dragons die. The poor guy even lifted up his shirt for me. All honest mistakes, but the global impact is far reaching, as I’m sure you can imagine.

I, however, negotiated a significant sea change this year, by God. Sadie and I were making the dessert for all the parties, and we were taking requests. Kosher, Lucky Charms marshmallows, saffron-laced cinnamon, sugar-free, Weight Watchers, and yes—gluten-free—were all fair game.

***

None of this came easy. It all started the Christmas prior. Neither Sadie nor I were anywhere near high enough in the family hierarchy to dare make a main dish. Hell, Aunt Lana was pushing 70 and all she got was sweet potatoes. Desserts held a special place in the Roberson family pantheon of dishes. I moved in on this sacred territory by exploiting Sadie and I’s own weakness: punctuality.

“Why give the two people who are always late the appetizer responsibility?” I quietly wondered after about four beers in as I was “helping” Hurricane Sadie with the cooking.

“Why the hell make Sadie in charge of the first dish when we are always freakin’ late?” I loudly wondered after four more drinks.

It wasn’t the most eloquent of slice of oratory, and I had to sleep in a chicken coop for a month, but the Roberson Family Council decided to hear our case. They wore robes and the whole thing was mysteriously candle-lit, and there was a blood oath in there somewhere. Sadie thinks I’m making it up and swears that I passed out drunk watching Big Trouble in Little China in the basement with my nine-year-old nephew, but I know what I saw.

***

Back to gluten, which is the crux of this Christmas miracle of a yarn that I’m attempting to spin. Or at least untangle. I decided to swing for the fences and whip up a Devil’s Food cake, as just about everyone at the upcoming parties enjoys chocolate. That's at least one thing going for me. Which is nice.

Three cakes are to be made, and being a veteran of the restaurant business, I insist on making them from scratch. My first cake—a predesignated tester for myself and Sadie—goes according to pan, er--plan, almost. It ends up being crumblier than a Nature Valley granola bar left out for days in the middle of the desert. I make a few phone calls and do some research, and I learn that I need to figure out a suitable substitute for binding proteins that wonderful gluten provides.

More eggs and baking powder, here we come.

The second cake seems to’ve done better, but there is no real way to test it. I had to rely on the omniscient internet chefs, and I was going to have to be okay with that. Folks were going to be good and tuned up on eggnog by the time they got to dessert, anyways.

Cakes no. 2 and no. 3 came out just fine as well. They did have some issues with releasing from the pan, but I filled any gaps in the structural integrity of the cakes with more of my award-winning homemade icing. The awards were ones that both I and my four-year-old cousin created, but still—it was only a matter of time before the Food Network called me up.

***

‘Twas the night before Christmas,

And all through the kitchen, ‘twas nary a speck of gluten,

These desserts were gonna be bitchin’

When up from my nightmare, what did I see?

“Dave, these desserts also had to be dairy-free!

I woke up in a cold sweat, grateful that I didn’t remember much about my nightmare. Such bad dreams don’t necessarily have to be foreboding and prophetic, right? We loaded up the car and stopped to get some wine on the way to the first get-together.

A few I-5 freeway exits down, we stopped to get some wine on the way for the first get-together. I was nervous passenger, and thirsty to boot.

“Honey, why don’t you head for the register, and I’ll catch up with you at the car,” Sadie said at stop no. 2. “There’s a stocking stuffer for you that I forgot.”

I had a feeling that was not the case, but her almond-shaped, emerald eyes glistening behind that smile was spellbinding. Turns out, she purchased two cheap backup cakes to hedge the bets. These delectable—albeit additive-laden—delights will play a role in our story in a bit.

First stop: her grandmother Jackie and step-grandfather Joe’s beach house. No theme for this one—the stunning Lake Sammamish view is vibe-setting enough. We get through shrimp cocktail, Andy’s Famous Pot Roast (deemed so by the same committee that gave me my pastry awards, I imagine).

Dessert time. Go time.

Octogenarian Jackie stands up to take dessert orders. Unfortunately, I don’t have much competition; my gluten-free walk-on is the starting quarterback, dammit. And it is announced as much to the family, all of whom seemed to be bearing countenances of fear mixed with faint optimism.

The bottles of wine are left at the table, and for this I am thankful. She cuts into the cake, and to my—and everyone’s, I’d imagine—surprise it boasts exceptional texture and moisture.

I’d done it. I’d freakin’ done it! Until...

Cousin Bruce drops his fork and begins to break out in hives. All the items that I used to make up for the lack of gluten—the Paula Dean-caliber butter usage, the nougat and caramel I used for garnishing—send Bruce into a state of near anaphylaxis. Good old Bruce has a milk allergy, which is a million times worse than any unruly gluten molecule roaming the terrain of his rich, moist, and tasty dessert.

“I knew you used gluten!” Lana screamed. “You’ve never liked Bruce!”

She wasn’t wrong—I hated Bruce and the ground he walked on. But murder by milk was not in my wheelhouse.

“I most certainly didn’t,” I shouted back, not bothering to correct the Bruce part. The whole fam damily chimed it at this point, shouting back and forth. We were unified in one thing, anyway: we had to make sure Bruce didn’t die, and as such we were bummed that we had to put off our argument.

Poor Bruce had slumped from his chair to the floor, fumbling for his EpiPen. Once he was taken care of, Sadie and I decided to forgo the gift exchange under the guise of having another get-together to attend. This much was true, and all knew it, but she and I also needed a minute to strategize for the next gathering, at her stepfamily’s posh theme party.

***

There is no strategizing—we both agreed that the next gang of loved ones was to receive Fred Meyer’s finest and like it. We used our phones to Google up some peace of mind about pieces of gluten-laden cake, and off we went for the next gathering. The stakes were higher for this go-round, as we were staying the night at this shindig.

“No one’s got Celiac’s disease, and no one has a milk allergy,” Sadie said, as I stared off into the Redmond Highlands countryside. We were rolling with it, and I had to play along. When we arrived, I inhaled deeply before exiting our fuel-injected sleigh. There was a theme at this soiree, and it was one that robbed dignity, no matter how many people participated.

It was a silly wig party.

Why can’t the kith and kin of the holidays suffice? Why do folks feel the need to gussy things up as if we were nervous middle schoolers at a mixer? If a family is lacking in the aforementioned seasonal warmth, well, that’s what Pierre Smirnoff and James Beam are for. I opted for a bald cap—something ‘in the spirit’ but sufficiently unique to where my personal clothing style wasn’t overshadowed by any Spirit Halloween hirsuteness.

What happened next almost overshadowed the guestroom toilet overflowing with excrement later in the middle of the night. See, unbeknownst to me, a third cousin-in-law had just completed radiation treatement for cancer, and was naturally—you guessed it—bald. After some apologies and uneasy Temu forgiveness, I removed my bald cap and got to be myself. That proved to be the only positive, as just about everyone pounced on my Devil’s Food cake after dinner. Sadie’s 93-year-old great uncle Sam treated himself to three servings.

“I’m amazed with how good of a job you did, young man,” he remarked. “With my celiac situation, I can’t have gluten, but this is the best-tasting gluten-free dessert I’ve ever had!”

Uh-oh. Sadie was wrong about this wing of the family being celiac-free. Even though it was Sadie’s idea to drop back and punt by using the store-bought glutenous cake, we still maintained the ruse that I’d slaved over it for hours in the kitchen (which I did, but not with this cake). In a few short hours, I regretted playing along with that. Through a stroke of architectural genius, the only bathroom on the first floor was actually inside the guest room...Sadie and I’s living quarters for the night.

We had visitors. Along with cousin Art, we had uncle Lance, his new girlfriend Penny, and Sadie’s stepfather Ralph, who would go on to live up to his namesake once Art relinquished the porcelain throne.

By sunrise, we gave our apologies—I blamed unintentional cross-contamination—we were on our way to the last disasterpiece of the holidays. Before we left, everyone seemed nice enough, and thankfully there was enough stomach medicine for an army at the house. Otherwise, there may have been emergency room visits. Three of the four visitors and celiac’s disease, it turned out. And the man of the hour, cousin Art, had a host of GERD issues that weren’t friendly to gluten.

You just had to laugh. And laugh we did when we arrived at her father’s house. At the last minute, they’d switched themes. The white elephant game was history.

They were going to have a cakewalk instead.

***

“Oh, we know it was last minute,” said Sadie’s dad, Paul. “But when there was a miscommunication about who was bringing what and there were so many desserts...we decided on a cakewalk!”

Due to my own stomach issues that weren’t gluten-related, I always carried plenty of Pepto. I had a half mind to sneak some into the strange jello salad/mold/thing that his girlfriend Lulu had made. No one would have noticed the taste.

“Sweet, another game and theme,” I deadpanned, knowing that the lack of self-awareness of Paul and Lulu would all but assure that the sarcasm was lost.

Dinner was painless enough, but when the topic of dessert came up, Sadie let it slip that our cake was gluten-free.

“Why the hell you would bring that garbage here?!?” exclaimed Paul.

I really wish he’d be more open with his feelings.

My frustration with Sadie for misinforming me that all of the gatherings were to be gluten-free affairs almost boiled over. But then I was reminded of a beloved Henry David Thoreau quote:

“This is bullshit; what the hell, man? Time to get wasted”

It was my turn to drive us back, so my missive from the great transcendentalist would have to wait. Felled by failure and doubt, I tossed my cake into the trash bin when I was outside smoking. No one noticed, as I had quietly predicted. Not even Sadie.

But Beauty School Dropout did. This was Paul and Lulu’s prize French Bulldog. And he feasted and then feasted some more, undetected. By the time we gathered up our things after dessert, Lulu noticed that good old BSD was in a tizzy, and vomiting all over the gifts under the Christmas tree. Even I knew that chocolate and dogs don’t mix. I had no idea that the little f—er, bundle of canine joy—was able to climb to the top of the bin and binge on cocoa and gluten like there’s no tomorrow.

There almost was no tomorrow, for him. And yes, Paul, Lulu, and the local NBC affiliate, and CNN were all there to point out my mistake.

Gaylord Focker had nothing on me. I ‘met the parents,’ and almost killed the dog.

On the way back home, Sadie and I didn’t say much. We cranked up the radio and coasted home. After a few drinks at our local watering hole, we were approached by a kid selling chocolates for his school fundraiser. And you guessed it—they were gluten-free. We bought some, but Sadie had to stop me from drunkenly—and some would say deliriously—feeding them to the seagulls.

Before shutting off communication with the outside world, we texted Sadie’s folks:

“Made it home safe. No more desserts for us nxt year. We’ll bring cold pigs n’ a blanket and be late in doing so. LY”

A few hours and drinks later, Sadie’s friends Tobin and Torrence-June show up to spread holiday cheer. They brought hemp-infused crap as usual. I honestly didn’t care, even though they weren’t my favorite people in the world. When they and Sadie were outside doing hemp-related things, I peeked at the tupperware container they brought. Written in marker on top of masking tape was a term I never wanted to see again:

“Gluten-free is the way to be! Happy Solstice to you from the Earth Mother!”

I tossed them in the trash. And no one even noticed, except for Billingsley, their pet ferret.