ACROSS
1 Publisher Alfred
6 Spur to action
10 Mus. key with 
three sharps
14 Lost cause
15 Overconfident 
racer of fable
16 Hawaiian island
17 Hawaii or Alaska
18 Oil gp. that 
includes 
57-Down
19 Take a load off
20 Horse sense
23 Pool tool
24 Try to win
25 Colonel Sanders 
facial feature
28 Main attraction
32 Lab maze 
navigator
33 Letter flourish
34 “... good witch, 
__ bad witch?”
35 Angry or achy
36 Test proctor’s 
reminder
40 Soap units
43 Gold in Granada
44 Semiaquatic 
salamanders
48 The “A” in “IPA”
49 Hard-boiled genre
52 Like Easter eggs 
before the hunt
54 Duct opening?
55 Debate side
56 Its 
measurements 
include liters and 
grams
60 Squared up
62 Tax-sheltered 
plans: Abbr.
63 More than 
suggest
65 Partial view?
66 Scandinavian 
language
67 Circular
68 Decrease
69 Organic 
compound
70 Sch. district VIPs

DOWN
1 56-Across wts.
2 On the fence
3 Winning like 
crazy
4 Korda of 
’80s-’90s tennis
5 Library amenity

6 Camera buff, for 
short
7 Shoots the breeze
8 Utah city near 
Provo
9 10-point star 
polygon
10 Main blood 
vessel
11 Orchestra leader
12 Contented sighs
13 Stick (out)
21 Years and years
22 Word after fuel 
or fly
23 LP successors
26 Cup handle
27 Season after 
printemps
29 Erma Bombeck’s 
“At __ End”
30 Décor choice
31 MLB’s D-backs
35 Editorial “let it 
stand”
37 Event often 
visible in the 
evening sky
38 “__ tu”: Verdi aria
39 Cutting teeth
40 Derisive 
interjection
41 “Rope-a-dope” 
boxer

42 Paleo diet protein 
source
45 Took care of, as 
a spill
46 Annoy 
persistently
47 __-cone: summer 
treat
49 Safety feature 
at a trapeze 
school
50 La Brea 
discovery

51 Wall-climbing 
plant
53 Slow on the 
uptake
57 Pakistan 
neighbor
58 “Duck Dynasty” 
attire, for short
59 Pants, briefly
60 Flow back, as 
a tide
61 By way of
64 Ave. and st.

By Roland Huget
©2018 Tribune Content Agency, LLC
09/18/18

Los Angeles Times Daily Crossword Puzzle

Edited by Rich Norris and Joyce Nichols Lewis

09/18/18

ANSWER TO PREVIOUS PUZZLE:

Release Date: Tuesday, September 18, 2018

When I die I am going to 

ensure that my last meal is filled 
with all of the wheat, barley, 
spelt, kamut and rye I can stuff 
inside my mouth. I want my 
small intestine to shrivel up and 
go with me — its weaknesses no 
longer my problem — my body, 
laid to rest filled with all of the 
things that have been its poison 
for my whole life.

I will instruct the nurses and 

doctors to bring over plates of 
tall chocolate cake piled high 
with layers of rich icing resting 
between its moist, fluffy sponge. 
I will start with the cake, 
moving on to a bowl of pasta 
next, spirals of noodles filling 
a glass bowl that reflects my 
chubby, round profile as I march 
down the high road to my own 
demise. I will ask for a package 
of Oreos, a package of those pink 
frosted cookies that are so sweet 
they hurt your jaw and a still-
warm plate of my grandmother’s 
brownies. I will move on to a 
tray of croissants and muffins, 
drizzled with percisise ribbons 
of Nutella and sparkling with 
gems of round blueberries and 
chocolate chips. I will have a 
bagel imported from the shop 
in New Jersey — everything 
and undressed, naked in its 
doughy, 
carbohydrate-filled 

glory. I will have a Corona with 
lime, a stack of pancakes, a plate 
of fried chicken and a plate of 
mozzarella sticks. I will dip 
crispy, white-hot egg rolls into 
a bowl of gleaming soy sauce. I 
will finish with a chipwich — the 
kind from the ice cream trucks 
and a peanut butter and jelly 
sandwich. Because when I was 
little, before I was diagnosed 
with celiac, before I even knew 
what it was, those were my 
favorites.

Little did I know then, I was 

poisoning 
my 
eight-year-old 

insides, bite by bite.

Three million people, about 

one percent of the population, 
live with celiac in the United 
States of America. The disease 
is, by definition, an immune 
reaction to gluten, a protein 
found in wheat, rye and barley. 
In response to the consumption 
of the protein, the body is 
triggered to begin an immune 
response 
that 
attacks 
the 

small intestine. This affects 
nutrient absorption in the body 
and makes most people with 
celiac really freaking bloated 
and causes a whole bunch of 
other complications I’ll let you 
imagine for yourself.

Basically, my body has not 

made a hospitable environment 
for pizza, pasta, cookies, bread 
and happiness. I’m Italian, from 
a family of restaurateurs and 
chefs and I can’t eat pasta or 
pizza without being in agony, 
clutching 
my 
stomach 
and 

wondering where my genes went 

wrong. Everything I feel my 
culture and heritage is founded 
on — sharing meals, sharing 
bread — is a problem. Each pizza 
crust dipped in olive oil is like my 
own personal cyanide. I wonder 
if my grandfather is rolling over 
in his grave, wishing to disown 
me for my inability to ingest our 
Italian holy grail: pasta.

In a modern world, having 

celiac disease is getting easier 
every single day. Restaurants 
and grocery stores are keen on 
promoting gluten free products, 
which trendy moms who are 
testing out a gluten free diet 
and patrons who think they’re 
being healthy would consider 
“actually 
edible.” 
But 
the 

problem, for me at least, isn’t 
the lack of options or navigating 
restaurant menus, but rather the 
social awkwardness and stigma 
that comes along with being 
“gluten free.”

No matter how many times 

I can stress that I am not 
“gluten free,” but rather have a 
diagnosed disease that makes 
my body strongly irritated by 
gluten products and will lead 
to the destruction of my small 
intestines if I do not avoid it, 
I’m still that gluten free girl. It 
makes me feel like a burden or an 
annoyance — always being the 
one creating the problems when 
a group of people is ordering 
out, or when someone wants to 
share something. Being asked 
“Oh ... you’re gluten free?” in 
that monotone and judgemental 
drawl makes me want to scream, 
but normally I just respond, 
“actually, I have celiac,” and 
the conversation ends there, the 
person on the other end blinking 
in strange disbelief and biting 
into their quesadilla.

The awkward situations that 

come up are almost constant. 
Thinking about how food is 
pretty much the main form of 
American 
socialization, 
one 

can imagine how the celiac 
community runs into quite a few 
fumbles. Being offered a bite of 
someone’s food — a taste of cookie 
dough ice cream, a salad dotted 
with croutons, a dumpling, a 
slice of thick pumpkin bread 
— all accompanied by the “I’m 
allergic” 
comment 
will 
end 

a 
conversation 
every 
time. 

Birthdays and office gatherings 
when everyone wonders why 
you’re avoiding the cupcakes like 
the plague and proceeds to offer 
you them multiple times when 
in reality you simply can’t have 
them. Tailgates where people 
hand you beers, dates where you 
scan the menu for something not 
weird but also allergen friendly 
that won’t bring up the gluten-
free thing right away and the 
“let’s order pizza!” comment 
with the realization that you’ll 
be skipping out on dinner — all 
accompanied with the awkward 
pity 
coming 
from 
everyone 

around you.

I don’t want anyone to feel 

bad for me. I don’t want anyone 

to think I’m doing this to be on 
some trendy diet, or because 
I want to drop 10 pounds fast 
(which, 
by 
the 
way, 
going 

gluten free doesn’t do). In fact, 
I’ve really grown into what it 
means to be affected by celiac, 
and how I can make positive 
changes to enjoy the world of 
food without gazing, sardonic, 
on the other side of a bakery 
display, my head bubbling with 
dreams of round profiteroles 
and strawberry eclairs. Instead 
of just the gluten free flour 
options, I reach for interesting 
substitutes, 
expanding 
my 

palate and knowledge on food 
— and cooking tremendously for 
someone who has to try different 
approaches.

Before being diagnosed, I was 

always eager to choose going 
out to eat over cooking in, but 
now that it is easier to cook for 
myself to ensure I’m not eating 
anything I simply shouldn’t be, I 
love to cook. Recently, I became 
interested in chickpea pasta, 
which tastes much better than 
brown rice pasta and brings a 
different flavor profile entirely 
to one of my favorite pre-celiac 
dishes. I also make cauliflower 
pizza 
doughs 
and 
gnocchi, 

gluten free cookie skillets and 
gluten free banana bread. The 
substitutions I make for flour — 
opting for almond flour, coconut 
flour, rice and cauliflower have 
opened my eyes to substitutions 
I can be making for other 
ingredients as well — clarified 
ghee for butter and oil, cacao for 
chocolate, almond and coconut 
milk for regular dairy products 
and a myriad of vegetables for 
other common ingredients.

After 
getting 
past 
the 

separate pie on Thanksgiving 
— alone in its dingy glory, the 
awkward encounters and the 
occasional craving for chicken 
parmesan, celiac disease has 
been a blessing for me. It has 
pushed me into the kitchen, 
testing recipes, experimenting 
with flavors, trying new things. 
It has led me to opt for healthy 
alternatives, 
exploring 
the 

potential of food and its effects 
on my body. It has led me to 
celebrate the ingredients I can 
eat, to perfect my recipes and 
dishes and share them with 
those around me — especially 
those who can eat gluten — to 
show them that gluten free is not 
a burden, but a chance to look at 
things in a new light. I used to 
think my grandfather would roll 
over in his grave, a master chef 
and food connoisseur, imagining 
his granddaughter and her small 
intestine opposing of pasta and 
pizza and cannolis and the like. 
But I’m sure he actually looks 
down on me with pride, my 
defeats accepted and turned into 
gluten free triumphs, navigating 
the world of food as it should 
be navigated: with a unique 
perspective, fresh ideas and a 
pot of water, salted and boiling 
on the stove.

We wheat again: 

Navigating celiac disease 

in a world of gluten

FOOD COLUMN

Josephine 
Decker’s 

(“Flames”) 
latest 
cinematic 

offering, 
“Madeline’s 

Madeline,” hails from one of 
the most difficult-to-achieve 
subgenres of cinema: art about 
art. The film is a deep-dive 
into the legitimacy of high 

art and creative authorship. 
Did 
I 
really 
write 
this 

review? I mean, of course I 
wrote this review, but is it 
truly mine? On one hand, my 
analysis 
and 
interpretation 

is 
a 
creative 
entity 
unto 

itself, one that seems like it 
would belong to me. On the 
other, though, nothing I can 
say here is exactly new, but 

a creative process balanced 
atop another creative process, 
that of Decker. They’re my 
words, sure, but they’re about 
her film, her ideas, her life. 
The film follows Madeline 
(Helena Howard), an angst-
filled 
teenager 
who 
joins 

a performance art theatre 
troupe led by the magnetic 
and 
talented 
Evangeline 

(Molly Parker, “1922”). Drawn 
in by Evangeline’s artistic 
vision, 
Madeline 
quickly 

earns the lead in the troupe’s 
upcoming 
production, 
but 

as the show starts to eerily 
mirror 
Madeline’s 
life, 
it 

becomes unclear where the 
performance ends, and just 
whose story Evangeline is 
telling.

It’s 
no 
secret 
that 
the 

upper echelons of high art 
love to pat themselves on the 
back and celebrate their own 
artistry. From the aptly named 
Evangeline to the masks and 
dances 
of 
the 
performers, 

Decker’s depiction of high art 
is imbued with an intense, 
borderline-violent 
level 

of 
religious 
zeal. 
There’s 

something decidedly cult-like 
about the troupe, amplified by 
Madeline’s desperate desire to 
find a community to which she 
belongs. Decker toys with this 
malicious fanaticism, using 
her lurid and intimate brand 
of cinematography to turn 
the mundane and ordinary 
into 
overwhelming 
sensory 

experiences. 
She 
offers 
a 

cinematic 
experience 
that 

audiences will be hard pressed 
to find anywhere else, taking 
the viewers into Madeline’s 
mind as she struggles with 
loneliness, mental illness and 
artistic 
discovery. 
I 
won’t 

mince 
words: 
“Madeline’s 

Madeline” is a weird, weird 
movie. 
Unlike 
similarly 

bizarre 
offerings 
such 
as 

Boots Riley’s “Sorry to Bother 
You” — where there’s ample 
creativity but little intent or 
precision — Decker wields 
her creative vision with poise 
and 
purpose, 
delivering 
a 

well-tested rumination on the 
creative process.

The film’s subject matter 

‘Madeline’s Madeline’ is a 
successful self-reference

MAX MICHALSKY

Daily Arts Writer

Oscilloscope

FILM REVIEW
is decidedly self-referential, 
making it difficult to explain 
to those who haven’t seen it. 
Much of the wit in Decker’s 
writing rests on the layers of 
artistic performance present 
within the film, from plays-
within-plays to acting about 
acting. She positions these 
moments deftly, using them 
to make sharp observations 
about the nature of artistic 
performance. For example, the 
film is scathingly critical of the 
holier-than-thou 
pretension 

of the arthouse scene. When, 
the film asks, does art become 
less about documenting the 
human condition and more 
about 
masturbatory 
self-

celebration? If an artist were 
to cover themself in oil and 
lie screaming on a canvas, 
are they really making an 
artistic 
statement? 
Decker 

weaves these questions into 
the narrative as Madeline and 
Evangeline take its twists and 
turns.

Decker is able to pull these 

feats off with the assistance 
of Helena Howard. In her 
film debut, the young actress 

proves herself capable beyond 
her years, flaunting a range 
that should be the envy of 
many 
veteran 
performers. 

Her relationships with the 
mentors in her life take a 
variety of permutations from 

loving 
and 
supportive 
to 

borderline oedipal to outright 
adversarial. 
Nevertheless, 

Howard’s energy is incendiary 
as she makes each of these 
dynamics uniquely her own. 
If this weren’t enough of a 
challenge, she’s also asked 
to pantomime a number of 
animals, including a cat, a sea 
turtle and a pig. 

Wonderfully 
weird 
but 

surprisingly 
grounded 

and 
coherent, 
“Madeline’s 

Madeline” never lets its own 
surrealism stop it from sending 
a coherent message or telling a 
well-crafted story, a problem 
that seems to have plagued 
similarly 
experimental 

releases. Decker manages to 
hone her artistic vision to a 
point, creating a film that is a 
creatively unprecedented but 
all the while neatly assembled 
affair. In the end, “Madeline’s 
Madeline” serves as proof of 
its own hypothesis: The artist 
must control their art, lest it 
control the artist. 

ELI RALLO

Daily Food Columnist

“Madeline’s 
Madeline”

Oscilloscope

State Theatre

The film is a 

deep-dive into 

the legitimacy 

of high art 

and creative 

authorship

6 — Tuesday, September 18, 2018
Arts
The Michigan Daily — michigandaily.com