Don’t go nuclear, she said. I know you. You’ll go nuclear.

I just want an answer, I said.  I’ll be calm. 

You’re never calm. You don’t have a calm bone in your body. 

I used to think it was because we are just so different: my wife is a Yankee, and I’m not. She’s a soft-spoken country girl, and I’m not. She tends to be shy and retiring, and I don’t. But in this case, maybe she was right. Maybe quiet would be better; composure is a good thing. In twenty years of togetherness, Susan has seen me go ballistic any number of times for any number of reasons ranging from warranted to ridiculous. But in this case, I had had enough; my health was at risk. I was putting my foot down. I was taking control. I was looking for answers after a very very long period of ill health that came on suddenly, out of the blue, and stayed on, like a bad houseguest with Asperger’s who just cannot a hint that it’s time to leave.

One generally doesn’t write about health on a food blog — is this still a blog? I have no idea. So much has changed since I launched it ten years ago — unless the blog has tentacles that reach into other genres. Critical yeast my new friend XXX calls it: the stuff that makes other stuff grow, be it sourdough or conversation or good will.