A few months ago doctors told me I had Crohn's Disease. "What the--?" I thought as I sat in a hospital bed listening to a lab coat tell me that my appendix didn't burst and that I probably didn't need to be rushed into surgery. Up until then I was healthy, active and happy. So after numerous follow up visits, consultations and cameras up the ass, it was decided that my culinary past was to blame, and my future as a passionate home cook was in jeopardy. You see, for me, diet was the number one trigger for my symptoms. Sauteed spinach with garlic and crushed red pepper? Awesome going in. Eight hours later? I'd feel like hell--my intestines punishing me with pain only felt by suspects detained by Jack Bauer. I was depressed. I was confused. Mostly, I was just pissed off. It felt like everything I'd come to love about food was being taken away from me. I couldn't eat the things I desired, I was losing weight and was now spending more time writing a food diary than actually cooking in the kitchen. (February 21, 2010: Binged on cookie dough ice cream. Did not vomit. Conclusion: Still not lactose intolerant!) I learned to cook growing up because I liked to eat. Plain and simple. I figured out pretty early that if I wanted to be self-sufficient, I better learn for myself. Cookbooks, TV shows, watching and helping my mom prepare dinner--I just soaked it all in and after a few years, I could hold my own behind a stove. Then at some point cooking became more than just the act of preparing a meal. It's the smile on your girlfriend's face when you cook her dinner. It's the annual "here's the chefs" toast at Christmas. It's the indecipherable groan of pleasure that comes with the first bite of an unfamiliar dish. It's the history and elaborate story simmering in a stock pot. It's about being a member of the Clean Plate Club. It's about taking some fucking pride in something and doing it the right way. It's an obligation. My anger has subsided (slightly). I didn't have some grand epiphany or anything. I just became fed up eating poached chicken and rice at every meal. Time to suck it up, deal with my condition, and move on. Being a whiny bitch wasn't making me any healthier or happier.Slowly, I've reintroduced ingredients back into my diet. The passion is still there. But now I have to cook smarter. The challenge is not to just make something delicious, but to not send me back to the hospital in the process. My answer would be the same if you asked me today or two years ago: I cook well because I have to.