I think I need to introduce another Joie Fact (look to your right, top of the column–there they are).  Dunno why, I but I do. (Also, this delays isolating the thing I am most thankful for today.)

So, given that Thanksgiving deliciousness is just a couple days away, I am going to share my holiday tragedy in Fact 45: I am effectively allergic to cooked fruit.

People, this means cranberry sauce.  Furthermore, this means my mother’s amazing and delicious homemade cranberry sauce.  IT IS A CRIME.

I don’t really know when I discovered this.  It was recently enough (past five years or so).  In college, my roommate and I had this thing called “Angry Kitty Tummy.”  This came from one of my many monologues of ridiculousness (which happened at least daily in those rooms).  I had returned from the restroom and apparently felt I had been gone too long to just show back up in the room without explanation (I don’t know why–my brain just thinks like that).  So, upon entering, I began expressing how frustrating stomach difficulties were to deal with (my entire family understands and suffers from these woes in some way, shape, or form).  I said, in my monologue of ridiculousness voice (which is pitched higher than my normal voice and requires my lips to be closed tightly to achieve an appropriately childish and silly tone), that it was like “having an angry lion-kitty in my stomach and intestines clawing to get out: rawr rawr rawr rawr.” Concurrent with this description were my hands formed into widespread wickedly curved hooks, clawing the offending areas . . . which is not the action I was describing.  But it was illustrative enough to be memorable!  Since then, any time our digestive systems were not complying with accepted norms, it was referred to as Angry Kitty Tummy.

In fact, this is so much so the case that when I went out to Missouri at the beginning of this month and spent more time in the restroom than expected, the first and only response Auddie had to me emerging was, “Angry Kitty Tummy?”  I nodded and it was done.  Oh, the things that last after graduation–so glamorous.

This is exactly what happens when I eat cooked fruit.  There is an esplosion of epicly un-fun proportions.  I won’t go into more detail, because your imaginations are a lot kinder than me spelling it out and that is really all you need to know about how my digestive tract works.  You know, in case you ever invite me over for dinner (though, to be honest, after this post I won’t blame you if you never do).

It’s not exactly an allergic reaction, but it might as well be one.  It’s certainly enough to make me miserable and run as far away from pie as possibly I can.  And why only cooked fruit?  YA GOT ME!!!  Ask my genes, I’m sure they’d be happy to share.  Not.

As it is, I’ve learned to give up apple sauce and eat sparingly of any fruit-filled pastries.  It wasn’t that hard in most cases.  I love me apple sauce, but have never particularly liked MUSHY fruit.  (Mushy, blended fruit, on the other hand . . .)  So pies weren’t that hard to give up.  And most gels in donuts, ganaches in cakes, and jams in tortes were small enough servings to be bearable once in a while.

But that cranberry sauce.  That’s been the worst to give up, hands down.  I just love it SO MUCH.  Hopefully, self-control will prevail this Thanksgiving.

I PROMISE I won’t let you know if it doesn’t.

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