My husband I have just returned from a very nice dinner out with his grandfather, who happens to be 94 years old. He also happened to travel 2 hours from New York City to Providence...just to have dinner with us. He's truly a fantastic individual.
Selecting a restaurant is a bit of a tricky task when he comes to visit -- we have to find a place that qualifies as fine dining (he has a discerning palate) but also one that is quiet enough to carry on a conversation considering his hearing is not what it used to be. The typical corner joints usually don't fit the bill, and so we end up at places that get quite creative with their menus.
Eating out in general is always an adventure in blood sugar management. See how positive I was with that descriptor? It's an adventure. I always pick dishes that SHOULD be low carb, but somehow end up with blood sugars that skyrocket in defiance of my choice. Sauces are almost always to blame...restaurants are SO GOOD at hiding sugar in pomodoros, Indian curries, Thai sauces, etc. But tonight was a particularly ridiculous example.
Upon scanning the varied menu, I skipped over pastas and demi-glazed meats in favor of a dish simply called "shrimp + scallops". The plus sign was probably foreshadowing all the insulin I'd be adding to myself afterward. I swore the sparse caption underneath mentioned pearl tomatoes and fingerling potatoes. Totally carbohydrate countable options -- minimally guessing required.
What I received defied my taste buds. The shrimp and scallops were artfully placed over three side-by-side mounds of what I thought, on first glance, were grated potatoes. My first forkful sent my tastebuds into a sugary explosion, prompting me to finish the first mystery mound just trying to figure out what I was eating. There were bits of sweet corn imbedded in the display, so at first I thought it was just really ridiculously sweet corn. But my carbohydrate radar was going haywire. It couldn't be the corn.
When the server returned to refill water glasses, I asked him to remind me what I was eating as I pointed to the remaining two mystery mounds under the seafood.
"Oh yes, " he said as he clasped his hands together in delight, "that is spaghetti squash prepared in a bit of olive oil and then thoroughly doused in pure maple syrup."
I choked on his words. He used the words "doused" and "maple syrup" in a sentence describing my plate.
Who am I? Buddy the Elf? Who does this to dinner food?
Needless to say, I made my husband finish off my plate (because I felt like it would be rude not to finish an entree the server was so excited about) and I neurotically checked my continuous glucose monitor for the remainder of the meal. I've been dousing myself in insulin ever since.