Well, I’ve spent the past week with the stomach virus from hell. According to the doc, it’s highly contagious, I shouldn’t be sharing a bathroom, should only eat rice and chicken broth, and just when I think I’ve totally got my appetite back, I should absolutely starve myself that much longer otherwise I can totally start it all over again. Unfortunately, even the rice hasn’t cut it. My stomach is like a juicer. Everything goes in solid…and comes out liquid.
In the worst case of timing ever, my partner Danny has been anticipating having this past Monday off for Presidents’ Day so he could make a homemade lasagna recipe he’s been wanting to tackle for months! And it appears his excitement eclipsed any compassion for my problem as I lay dying on our new couch all day, literally starving myself just so I could avoid making rice smoothies in the bathroom.
So, I’m on the verge of puking out of both ends when all of a sudden I have to contend with the nauseating aroma of marina sauce, meat, ricotta cheese—the works. In his enthusiasm, Danny would continuously run into the living room to describe the next step in his cooking process. When that was finally all over, I thought I was out of the water (so to speak), so I headed into the kitchen to take a probiotic pill. And there, on top of the stove, sits a huge tray of the freshly baked lasagna. Even the probiotic pill in my hand began to shiver in terror.
But it doesn’t end there. Thrilled to cut into his creation, Danny immediately asked me if I’d like some, which I supportingly declined, suggesting diplomatically that he save some for me for ANOTHER DAY. Next thing I know, he walks into the living room with a plate of his lasagna and literally brings it to my face and tilts the plate towards me so that I could witness the wonders of his work—the many perfect layers of pasta, meat, sauce, and cheese all melting and oozing together. I gave him a single look that clearly said, “I am about to add a new layer of orange sauce to the top of your lasagna”, at which point I think he finally got the message and whipped the plate away from me with a quiet apology mumbled around a forkful of the stuff.
Here it is 5 days later, and I STILL haven’t been well enough to try the lasagna. But fear not, there’s at least half a tray of it still in our fridge, making everything in there stink worse than my bathroom.
