Eat, Pray, Swell: Prissy Elrod Learns How to Travel With Food Allergies and Medical Maladies

​​Let me just say this up front: I adore food. Not casually. Not the let’s-grab-dinner kind of love. I study menus. I plan entire vacations around where and what I’ll be eating. While other people research museums and historic walking tours, I’m knee-deep in restaurant recommendations, chef bios and indulgent ambiance. If I’m traveling, I’m tasting.

But every time I travel for food, cooking or anything epicurean, someone ends up swollen, red or en route to urgent care. Some might call it a curse. I call it a tradition. Let’s rewind.

It started years ago on a girls’ trip. Carefree and chatty, my friends and I were driving back to Tallahassee from Sarasota when someone offered me Skittles. I’d never had them before, so I didn’t know yet that I should never have them again.

An hour later, half my face was twice the size of the other. Turns out, I have a serious issue with artificial dyes: Red 40, Yellow 6, Yellow 5, Blue 1. Back home, I was pressing a wet washcloth to my swollen lips and Googling: “Skittles allergic reaction—fatal?”

After that incident, I made a trip to the Mayo Clinic in Jacksonville, where I was diagnosed with angioedema, an intense swelling of the face often triggered by allergies. The advice? “Take Benadryl daily as a prophylactic,” the doctor recommended. But I wasn’t feeling pharmaceutical or like sleeping through life—I was feeling holistic.

I called Jan Jensen, my longtime homeopathic guru. Jan’s the kind of person who looks into your eyes and asks about your energetic health. He listened, took notes and consulted his wall of tincture bottles. That day, he handed me a remedy made from bee venom. I was terrified.

“Remember, in homeopathy: Like cures like,” he said, referencing the idea that exposure to the offending allergen can heal. “You’ll get worse before you get better. And your fingertips will probably swell last—then it’s over.”

He was right. They did (my baby finger looked like a sausage) and then, like magic, it was over. I became a homeopathic believer, despite the skepticism of my doctor friends.

Then life showed me that it had a sense of humor: I married the male version of myself. Dale’s a swell guy. Literally. He swells, too.

The first clue came on Jan. 1, 2000. We’d spent the night before at the Governors Club in Tallahassee, ringing in the New Year in style—sparkling lights, candlelit tables, a tasting menu filled with extravagant bites of this, that and the unknown. It was all perfect—until it wasn’t.

Welcome to our new normal: fine dining with a side of potential anaphylaxis. When in doubt, always order for yourself.
—Prissy Elrod

At sunrise, I woke to find my soon-to-be husband struggling to speak. I told him to open his mouth so I could look inside. When he did, I screamed. His uvula was the size of a ping-pong ball resting on top of his tongue.

“We’re going to the ER—now!”

I was trapped between two panicked states: “Let’s ride this out” and “Do I call an ambulance?” Since that widow’s cape still blanketed me after my first husband passed, I chose the latter. Seven hours later, Dale was discharged from the emergency room, and we left with an EpiPen and a new perspective on chef’s choice tasting menus.

Beignets and Benadryl

Fast forward years later … It was another elegant evening marked by the element of surprise—this time in New Orleans. What could go wrong in the food capital of the South? We were there with friends and had one mission: to eat. From powdered-sugar beignets at Café Du Monde to velvety Creole crab bisque, we indulged at every opportunity. But we saved our grandest expectations for our final night.

Through friends, we had a connection to the head of one of New Orleans’s most esteemed culinary institutions. He invited us to dine as his guests at one of the city’s top luxury hotels, where he was friends with the executive chef.

Upon arrival, we were ushered into a private dining room—posh, hushed and candlelit. No menus appeared. Instead, our host, who sat at the head of the table, announced he and the chef had curated every course, including the wine pairings. All 12 of them. There would be no choices, no substitutions. It was to be an immersive, chef-driven experience. Jackpot.

By course six—and hour three—things took a turn for the worse.

Between the duck confit and the Champagne toast, Dale’s throat began to swell. Again. I casually passed him a Benadryl from my purse and flagged the waiter. “What, exactly, is in this?” I asked. He replied with a blank stare.

Then came the final twist—the bill. The culinary bigwig and the chef had hatched a plan: It appeared the chef comped his meal, while the rest of us guests split the bill, which meant we paid for the privilege of not choosing our own food and nearly sending Dale to the hospital. 

The waiter’s tip alone gave me indigestion. But I had a remedy for that. I pulled my after-meal supplement (papaya enzyme with chlorophyll) from my bag and chewed it.

Welcome to our new normal: fine dining with a side of potential anaphylaxis. When in doubt, always order for yourself.

When in Rome

Then came peak culinary allergic disaster.

It happened on my most recent gastronomic tour: a dream trip to Italy steeped in pasta, olive oil and danger. I was prepared. I packed my No-Jet-Lag tablets (homeopathic magic), emergency meds and a cheerful outlook.

By the time we landed in Rome, after the 10-hour flight, I was energized and borderline euphoric. Dale, on the other hand, was sweating, nauseous and nursing a cramping calf.  I diagnosed him with a blood clot. Naturally, we skipped our hotel check-in and went straight to the ER. Our driver dropped us off, and I burst through the doors, Southern accent blazing, spouting what I assumed was urgent medical information. But, in a blink, a nurse injected him with what I can only assume was a shot of heparin.

Then came the EKGs, echocardiograms, chest X-rays and enough bloodwork to supply a small research lab. Had I misdiagnosed the blood clot? Possibly. They tried to admit him to the hospital and urged me to convince him to stay. He refused.

“I’m not leaving you alone in Rome!” he insisted. He’s stubborn and protective. After 13 hours in the Roman ER (and one cranky English-speaking doctor), we fled. Later, I watched Dale sleep, unable to close my eyes, still buzzing from the No-Jet-Lag, wondering if he was cured or if I was hallucinating.

Hell hath no fury like a constipated man!
—Prissy Elrod

From Rome, we headed south to Termoli for a week-long cooking retreat. I was ready for truffle shavings and wine pairings. Dale was just trying to breathe. By the time we arrived, he was covered in a rash that looked like alien markings. I quietly asked our group leader for the nearest pharmacy. She heard “rash” and called a doctor. Fifteen minutes later, Dale was in an ambulance. Again.

New town, new hospital, same mysterious symptoms. I sat in the waiting room with strangers whose words I couldn’t understand. The hospital doors stood open to the warm night air, and I watched three chickens pecking in the courtyard—waiting, like me. 

He was released around midnight—still undiagnosed, still blotchy—and with a new cocktail of untranslatable meds. In three days, he’d landed in two different hospitals in two different cities. And yet, we continued. Because that’s what we do. I adore him.

Despite all, the week was glorious. We cooked with a five-star chef, crushed olives at Princess Marina Colonna’s estate, toured Caseificio Di Nucci (founded in 1662 and home to highly awarded cheeses) and dined in a trabucco fishing house that jutted out over the Adriatic Sea. We drank wine until the scenery blurred. Dale scratched his way through each course like a devoted, allergic sous-chef. Despite trying to poison my husband, Italy fed my soul.

In Bocca Al Lupo

Which brings us to this year. Another epicurean adventure awaits: France and Italy. As you’re reading this, I’ll likely be mid-adventure. This trip is a girls-only getaway. No Dale. No Skittles. No medical emergencies. Please!

My husband has had his fill of Italy—literally. To this day, we still don’t know what those Italian doctors gave him for the swelling. We only know the side effects: For two full weeks, nothing moved through his colon. Most men I know complain if they miss a single day without results. Fourteen days? The man is still scarred.

We all know: Hell hath no fury like a constipated man! Somewhere between the missed courses and mystery swelling, I realized I’ll never be that carefree traveler. But I will always be the one with the story: the improvisation, the emergency, the antihistamines and the silver linings. My experience may never go as planned—but honestly, would I even remember it if it did?

In bocca al lupo, as the Italians say—wish me luck!

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Read more of Prissy Elrod’s witty lifestyle musings here.

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