When I was paleo, somehow you don’t eat paleo, you are paleo, anyway, when I was paleo I couldn’t eat regular noodles. Of course, as is typical in these United States of America, everyone in my family wanted spaghetti for dinner. This presented a challenge. How would I stay paleo during pasta night?
The answer was zoodles, zucchini noodles.
To make zoodles you jam a well-shaped zucchini on a rotating attachment which you can purchase as an aftermarket accessory for a standard Kitchenaid mixer. The fact that I was so committed to paleo in that time of my life that I’d purchased a special attachment kit for my mixer designed specifically for spiralizing my zucchini is worth noting. I was all in.
I watched videos that demonstrated how easy life was for paleo cooks with this particular attachment. Impale a zucchini on the pointed end, turn on the mixer, and stand back in awe as ribbons of zucchini fold into your bowl. Add a little olive oil and salt and boom. You’ll never need real pasta again. You’ll never miss it once you understand how great a substitute zucchini can be, for everything.
After spending the better part of an hour turning zucchini into pasta I still have to make actual pasta. I’m the only one who’s going to eat the
After all that, labor-intensive zoodle making, I still have a problem. I’ve got to figure out how to test the actual pasta. I can’t eat pasta. At this point I’ve contorted my diet, over months, to be so clean you could eat off it.
Pasta has gluten in it. And God knows what stale hell else.
I’m paleo. There was no such thing as pasta when primitive, but I’m assuming super buff man, ate dinner. I was living a life free of gluten, dairy, and processed white sugar. I was doing this for my health, for longevity, and to reduce inflammation. All the right reasons dammit. As God as my witness, I wasn’t going to screw it up. So how the hell would I know if the actual death noodles packed with toxic whatever were properly cooked and ready to serve my loved ones?
I realized I’d have to bite into one. Shit. There was no other way.
I retrieved a noodle, I carefully sunk my teeth into it to be sure it wasn’t too crunchy or too soft. I turned my head to the sink and spit out the half inch of pasta before it could pollute my body. I’m not going to eat that gluten-packed death worm. No sirree!
We sat down to dinner. My family enjoyed the spaghetti I’d made for them. They’re appreciative. It’s important to note that they are all trim, fit, and not plagued by weight issues. Food isn’t a huge issue for them like it is for me. They are all men btw, I don’t know if that’s germane to the food issue thing, but there it is. I am lucky because they are supportive of whatever I have to do, to be healthy.
They don’t seem terrified of the pasta that I’m avoiding like it contained plague spores. I eat my zoodles alongside this family who is appreciative of their actual pasta and supportive of my contorted food situation.
“How are your zoodles mom?”
“They taste like shit son. Zucchini isn’t pasta. It will never be pasta. But I spent one-hundred dollars on my mixer attachment and one hour of my life making the damn things. So I’ll eat them. But they taste like shit.”
“It seems weird that you can eat the spaghetti sauce but not the pasta?”
“Paleo man had marinara. It was what separated him from the animals. Look it up.”