A new recipe for chicken and porcini mushroom stew sounded delicious but tasted meh, and worse, the next day I was sick, both ways. The mushrooms smelled pleasant and earthy when I pitched them days later, but the memory made my stomach lurch. I couldn’t even look at mushrooms in the grocery store.

I did a Google search and learned some things about mushrooms: mushrooms should never be eaten raw; any mushroom can make you sick, even if it hadn’t before; and mushrooms and wine together can make you sick. I didn’t have wine this time, but years ago, I made dinner for my new boyfriend with portobello mushrooms on the side and a lovely wine. We sat down to eat and after a few bites, I had to rush off and got sick. At the time I attributed it to a street hot dog at lunch, but now I’m not so sure.

I had a friend who was allergic to potatoes. She had to ask waitstaff if the soup was thickened with potatoes, tell them not to give her fries, and if her order arrived with fries, she had to send it back and ask for a clean plate. Now and again she inadvertently ate potatoes and got sick. The vapour from potatoes boiling on the stove triggered her asthma and made her use a puffer.

I have allergies to pollen and pet dander, no food that I know of, although I’ve broken out in hives after eating shrimp and corn nuts, been sick after eating mussels, got welts in my mouth from avocado, a sore mouth from cream cheese, and my eye became swollen when I touched it after eating a peach.

My scariest moment was on a train ride in the Swiss Alps a few years ago. The scenery was dreamlike: lush green meadows flecked with edelweiss, storybook chalets with window boxes, railway bridges across deep chasms, an amazing array of colours in the rock.

I was nibbling on some trail mix I’d bought at the train station. I bit into a Brazil nut and suddenly it had a terrible, acrid taste that filled my mouth. I spat it into a napkin and swished my mouth with water, and I balked at spitting on the floor and swallowed. My tongue felt furry and had started to swell. I felt sheer terror when I realized my airway could become blocked. “Is this how I’m going to die?” I thought wildly, “On a train in Switzerland?” 

I had antihistamine tablets in my suitcase, and I dashed to the luggage rack and opened my case on the floor, and I found the toiletries bag and popped a tablet in my mouth. Then I closed my suitcase, put it back in the rack, and returned to my seat. I breathed deeply, concentrating on slowing my heartbeat, waiting for the antihistamine to work. After a few minutes, my tongue felt normal, the swelling subsided, I was fine, but rattled.

That evening in Zermatt, I waited with other tourists for a glimpse of the tip of the majestic Matterhorn, and it stayed hidden behind passing clouds. I had dinner on a patio and watched musicians in traditional costumes playing Swiss music, complete with alphorn. It was lovely.

I’d overcome a case of nerves to make my solo trip to Europe, and I’d been doing well. A little snack on a train made me feel like I was far from home, and lucky to be alive.