I have Hashimoto’s. I’m not sure, but I think that name is Latin for “screws your life up in ways you could never have imagined.” It’s a hereditary auto immune disorder that jumps on you with both high heels whenever you experience an abnormally high amount of stress. That is, of course, absolutely epic timing—everything else is pounding on you, so your body decides to jump in and kick its own butt. It mostly affects women, but my younger brother had the good fortune to draw the chance card and come up with the disorder just after his daughter was born. Who would’ve thought having a baby around the house could be stressful?
My brother lives in Oregon. I don’t know if you’ve ever been to Oregon, but I can tell you that it’s a different kind of place. The scenery is beautiful, and the people have a very different outlook on life (they don’t pump their own gas. Seriously. It’s been in the news lately. You should look it up.). So, apparently, if you want an endocrinologist in Oregon, you get a holistic doctor. That’s where things get interesting.
Hashimoto’s is very common, and the treatment is fairly standard. You get hormone replacement therapy, and that’s supposed to magically fix everything.
Anyone that has it knows it ain’t that simple. The hormone replacement gets you back to about 80%, and you just have to learn to deal with the problems that remain. But holistic doctors have a much more “whole body/spirit” thing going than regular doctors do, and that remaining 20% really bothers them. For my brother, that meant adding a treatment that was intended for recovering addicts. There is supposedly a lot of science behind this move, which I won’t bore you with, mostly because I don’t really understand it. However, when I asked my daughter, an emergency room physician, about it, she simply made a noise—one that said, loud and clear, that she thought holistic medicine’s version of science was about as effective as sacrificing a chicken and drawing druid symbols on the floor.
But since my brother’s hippie-doc was the only medical advice he could get, he went with it. And, wonder of all wonders, those remaining issues started to abate. So, despite the fact that I paid for a substantial portion of the medical degree that looked down on hippie medicine with such disdain, I decided to jump on the bandwagon. I got my own hippie-doc. And the first thing he did was ban gluten for a six-month trial period.
Do you have any idea how many things have gluten? Pancakes. Soy sauce. My favorite lasagna recipe. All gone. I even had to give up my gummie vitamins.
After I got over being a drama queen about it, I decided that if I had to endure, I would try to make the best of it. Chocolate doesn’t have gluten. Neither does wine.
I was feeling better already.
So I started experimenting with gluten free food. This is a dirt simple recipe. I love it. If you’ve ever been to a restaurant that serves malt vinegar with fries, you know what I’m talking about. I can’t have malt vinegar because of the gluten, but if you can, I would sub that for the white vinegar—I bet it would be amazing. You could also fry these, but I mostly avoid fried stuff, so I bake.
Baked Vinegar Fries
Potatoes (peeled or not—your choice)
White vinegar (for a milder flavor, use apple cider vinegar)
Seasoning (I use lemon pepper but straight up salt would work fine)
Cut as many potatoes as you want to serve into French fry sticks. Place them in a container and pour enough vinegar over them to just cover them. Cover and place in refrigerator for 3 hours. After time is up, preheat the oven to 375 degrees and spray a baking sheet with non-stick spray. Pour vinegar off of potatoes and pat the pieces dry. Lay them out on a baking sheet so that the pieces do not touch, then spray the potatoes with a little non-stick spray. Season as you like, then bake for 45 minutes or until done.