Casseroles are my kryptonite.
I see them and I think, ooh, carby goodness! Sounds great! It's like my good sense says look, something shiny! And then I eat some and, for a while, I'm happy and satisfied and comforted and all those good things that can come from eating old school food.
But you see, this is my critical error: I forget that all casseroles are made of cream of cream and cheese and they will, within a matter of time, make me very, very ill. Because I really can't eat casseroles; the dairy in them is somehow the worst of all dairy for me and will shortly turn me inside out.
But I forget all this, you see, until it's late at night, and I'm writhing in pain for the first time in months, and I have a visceral understanding of my folly. And then I loathe casseroles, vats of roiling lactose waiting to pounce on the absentminded, cauldrons of cheese and cream avoiding the appearance of evil but secretly, in their heart of hearts (though I doubt they have hearts, fiends!), rotten to the core. Or, at least, rotten to my core.
I am eating dry toast and 7-Up today.