T-day

First, I must make a lame excuse: I've been sick. So sick that when I lie down in the quiet of my parents' luxurious home on their couch (they are notoriously anti-guest room ever since the stay in of '99) I can hear my heart beating. It beats quickly. Beatbeatbeatbeatbeat..as if in eighth notes. It disgusts me. The sound of the beating of my very own heart. It disgusts me even more than the phlegm I've been coughing up.

Last night:

"Let me see," my father says to me.

I show him what I've coughed up into a tissue.

"Well, you're not being very productive there, Hildy," he says shaking his head.

"Yeah. It's like I'm a slovenly, lazy employee with my low mucus production. You should fire me," I say, being funny.

"We'll take you to the clinic tomorrow," he says.

It's tomorrow. Surprise! The clinic is closed. Apparently, the doctors and nurses in this barren little town want to have a holiday.
But I prevail and drink lots of hot tea. And spray my collodial silver.

But I suppose I should, for you, my dear readers, write about the feast my mother prepared.

At the risk of offending my fellow foodies, I have the following announcement: I am beginning to be disgusted by the idea of animal products and am at risk of becoming a vegan.

In the moment, the turkey was all right, but to remember and think about it, disgusts me.

The mashed potatoes were dry, but okay with the gravy. I do love potatoes!

My aunt had brought salad (not enough avocado)-damn, I'm, WHINY when I'm sick- but with the best dressing EVER. I can't remember what's in it. I think it had an apple cider vinegar base. And there was some ground mustard. Again: being sick is tampering my ability to remember things.

The cranberry sauce was sublime, sweetened with honey and with a slight orange aftertaste, it was the perfect compliment to the turkey. Imagine if you LIKE turkey. Which, I've decided I don't. Although, perhaps in a sandwich smothered in mayo. I do like mayo. But that too is animal -esque. Maybe it's a phase: this thinking about where the food COMES from.

The green beans were perfectly plain.

It was delicious! There was also a sparkling white wine that my aunt and uncle had brought.

"Five bucks at Trader's!" My aunt had exclaimed, "and it's imported from Italy."

I drank three glasses I think. This may have helped my illness along by putting me behind on my fluidating.

But onto the desserts!

My mother makes the world's best blueberry pie. First, the crust is made out of rice flour (so you can imagine how delicate it is) and the filling is made with blueberries and honey. It is profoundly delicious.

There was a carrot cake, which was dropped off by a friend of my parents I'd never met. Originally it was going to be a chocolate cake, but the guy who made it, thought that carrot was more appropriate for Thanksgiving. This bummed me out, quite a bit because I am an absolute freak about chocolate cake. But, since I was the only one who could eat it (everyone else is avoiding wheat) I took a small slice.

Here's what was on my dessert plate: A small sliver of cake, a sliver of pie AND some Hagen Daz chocolate chocolate chip ice cream. I drank decaf coffee with it. YUM.

I don't have much time. My parents have just given me some real cough syrup. The kind with codeine. Dad had some left over from last year. Who says it's a good idea to throw out medication you don't use? Seriously. What a bunch of stupid idiots. If they'd thrown that out, I'd be suffering instead of on my way to being cured.

Again, dear readers, I know, I'm off my game. I'm not 100%. But I am, profoundly ill.

I leave you,

at Death's door,

and I am,

Hilda Stinson