The Bite 012: My Safe Snack Is Now Unsafe. Cool Cool Cool.

It finally happened. I found a snack I liked.

Like actually liked. Not tolerated.

Not “fine, I guess this is what my life is now” liked — no

I bonded with this snack. It saw me. It understood me. It had ingredients I could pronounce, packaging that didn’t feel like a lie, and a crunch that made me feel like maybe, just maybe, I could love again.

And then?

I flipped the bag over and saw it. That cursed little disclaimer.

“Made in a facility that also processes milk.”

Oh.

So we’re doing this again.

Let me ask you something. Why does everything good come from a dairy-splattered hellscape of shared equipment and broken dreams?

Can we not build ONE milk-free factory? Just one?!

Put it in a cave. On a cloud. In a vacuum-sealed bunker. I don’t care. Just get your powdered dairy particles away from my one safe joy.

I stood there in the kitchen, bag still open, eyes twitching.

My brain instantly spiraled:

• “Can I still eat it?”

• “Will I react?”

• “Maybe it’s fine?”

• “No, that’s how people die.”

• “But what if just one bite…”

• “SHUT IT DOWN, DOMINIQUE.”

Because here’s the thing — this allergy has turned me into a full-blown conspiracy theorist. Like, Karen Read-level spiraling.

I read labels like they’re redacted CIA files. I no longer trust anything I didn’t grow, ferment, suffer to obtain, or personally interrogate. And the phrase “processed in a facility with” now holds the same emotional weight as “we need to talk.”

I’m not overreacting. I’m trauma-snacking. There’s a difference.

And the worst part? This wasn’t even some weird new product. This was something I’d eaten before. Loved before. Stocked up on, recommended, stood behind like it was the final rose ceremony on The Bachelor.

I introduced other people to it.

I vouched for it like it was a trusted friend.

And now I find out it’s been secretly flirting with dairy this whole time?

Oh.

Betrayal hits different when it's shelf-stable.

Richard, Richie, Ricky - my emotional unavailable roommate with questionable food morals. My sweet, selectively oblivious husband saw the look on my face and froze. He knows that look. That’s the “I found milk in the fine print and now everything is chaos” look.

This incident may be the only legitimate reason my husband ever has to gently suggest I be evaluated for a wellness check. Although let’s be honest, he still hasn’t fully recovered from The Meatball Saga.

I got another jab — this time, not from him. He was safe. For now. He took one look at my twitching eye and my clenched snack bag, and he slowly backed out of the room like one does with a wild animal.

He gets it. He should. This man once fed me grilled cheese during my undiagnosed years and now lives in a constant state of culinary probation.

Because grief over snacks is real, okay?

This was the one snack I didn’t have to overthink. The one snack that didn’t taste like regret and chalk. The one snack that made me feel like maybe Alpha-Gal Syndrome wasn’t a sentence — just a lifestyle with limited joy and occasional bloating.

Now it’s gone. Because of a facility. A facility!!!

So here I am. Standing in my kitchen, whispering to a bag of vegan pretzels like I just caught them cheating.

If you need me today, I’ll be:

• Reading every ingredient label like it’s a prenup.

• Texting my mother like a true crime witness.

• And I’ll be side-eyeing by husband until further notice.

Happy Wednesday. May your snacks be safe, your labels be honest, and your grief be mild.

Dom

A.K.A. TickBitChick