Someone in the house has gout.
I am not at liberty to name the person rocking a bitching case of the disease of kings, but I can tell you it's not me. It's also not Peanut, nor Buttercup. And it's definitely not the cat.
In the run up to the diagnosis, I had noticed the New York Times had been going on an everyone-eats-together rampage in the Style/Food section, and I was happy to agree. I said to the gout patient (before we knew there was a gout patient in the house) that, aside from nights where I breeze in from work at bedtime, we would be a family that made one meal for dinner, period. The gout patient had no problem with that. We're not a house of picky eaters, even with my protein-crazed eating habits.
Except then Gout showed up with a full suitcase and now I'm having to go back on everything I said.
For one, Gout does not get along with my personal health plan. Strike that. Gout LURVES my personal health plan. More meat, Gout says. Moooooore meat! And salt! And dried legumes such as peanuts! Oh, and foie gras! Oh, Gout loves foie gras.
Not that we have access to that particular gout bomb, but hey.
I spent the weekend consulting Dr. Google and running back and forth to the grocery store for more fresh fruit (Gout and the fresh fruit? Not so much) while the gout patient hydrated and experimented with his new Super Strength NSAID of loopiness. And I've started dealing with the fact that for the time being, we're a two-dinner family.
Gah. Stupid gout.