I went through a long period–a few years, really–where I didn’t care about what I ate. Having been gluten free for more than a decade, I decided I’d healed my gut enough and that it was high time I enjoyed eating again. I was tired of saying no to a warm basket of bread on a restaurant table or real pizza with thick doughy crusts straight out of the baker’s oven.

And although my husband supports my health, he was very gung ho about jumping back to the dark side with me. For longer than I care to admit, we were proud converts to Cheetos, Oreos, Cheez-Its, not to mention lasagna with extra cheese and real noodles, and a host of other food stuffs, which for me was just an orgy of careless gluttony.

It didn’t take long to gain ten pounds but it took a bit longer for my gastrointestinal tract to complain. And when it finally did speak up, it was serious enough for me to pay attention.

Now my refrigerator is full of kefir, natural peanut butter, lactose-free butter and gluten free bread. I’d like to say it was fun while it lasted, but it really wasn’t all that fulfilling. When I started eating well again, just slicing and eating a crisp apple felt like the most delicious thing ever. When you visit the dark side, your return to the light can be sweet. Maybe that’s the point of straying from the virtuous path from time to time: you realize what you had before wasn’t so bad after all. You remember the simplicity and goodness of an apple.

My husband, however, isn’t having an easy time getting back on track. He doesn’t have a problem with wheat, but he does love sweets–things like pastries and cakes and cookies. He grew up with a German mother who baked everyday. To him, a cookie screams “love!” I made a chocolate cake, three layers, for a relative’s birthdays recently and after I go to bed, I can hear the tinfoil rustling in the kitchen. Willpower is a scarce commodity for him when it comes to sweets. You should see the look on his face when we pass a bakery.

The good news is that it hasn’t been that hard to eat an apple instead of a bag of chips. What I’m seeing is that real food actually tastes good. An orange is delicious when you haven’t had one in a while. A baked potato steaming on your plate is comforting, and homemade chicken and rice soup with rounds of boiled carrot and some fresh thyme is irreplaceable.

One surprising thing I’ve done is to begin drinking kefir, which is cultured milk. I read lots of studies that touted its healing properties for the gut. The great thing about our bodies is that they tell us what they need, and it only took one glass of kefir for me to see that this was going to be a good thing. It even feels good going down. If we can get to the point where we are able to discern what feels right when we eat it, that’s the key right there.

I have to say, I’m not a huge fan of unyielding healthy eaters who buy fake meat, have an aversion to food that once had a mother, or buy kale chips instead of real chips. I have respect for their willpower and their approach to health, but eating is never political or ideological for me. It’s hard enough to navigate the food aisles at a grocery store avoiding high fructose corn syrup and wheat. I’m trying to make eating simple.

In the last years of my mother’s life, she was like a squirrel hiding candy all over the house. She also had a pact with her grandkids to sneak in contraband when I wasn’t looking. She loved Peppermint Patties, Reese’s Cups, Swedish fish. When I started helping with the cooking, she too, began to remember the goodness of real food–sliced tomatoes, avocados, sauteed greens. It was fun for her to rediscover life away from candy bars and coffee, and she gained some much-needed weight and regained some of her health.

As we get older, we lose our robust appetites. The body is adjusting to our lessened activity levels. We’re not chasing three kids around the house and spending 80 hours a week working and taking care of our families anymore.

I’m reconnecting with the idea of eating foods that count. But there are things I’m going to miss. People tell me cauliflower crusts are great on pizza. But, no thanks. It’s just not the same. And there’s no pretending that it is the same. That’s where the sacrifice comes in.