Thank You, Pasta
I was real close to getting through my 3rd day without solid food following a nasty bout of the stomach flu.
When I remembered something.
When I was 19 years old I had a tumor in my throat. Thankfully it was benign but I always remember the operation to remove it because I'd been scared, they didn't knock me out to take it, and it was the size of a golf ball when they showed it to me.
That and some kid dumped his bike as my mother was driving me home from the hospital and it hurt like hell to laugh at the goofy bastard going over the handlebars.
Anywhoha...
Following that surgery I was in a bad way for a few days.
I was drinking dinner (and not in the good way), and as you know, whining about my pain.
On about day 3 my Dad tried to talk me into eating solid food.
I remember being nasty about it.
He made it anyway.
He brought a full plate of pasta to the living room and set it about a foot from my nose.
"I know you can't eat," he said. "But just in case."
As I was telling Sam the story the other night he started laughing.
"Like a dog," he said.
He didn't even ask if I ate it.
Which I did.
Probably before my Dad ever hit the stairs.
So I turned on the rigatoni last night.
I made a real soft sauce for it without too much garlic or onion.
"Can you eat it without losing it?" Sam asked.
"I guess we'll see," I said.
It never stood a chance.
12 hours later, I feel great.
Thank you, pasta.
Thank you, Poppa.
When I remembered something.
When I was 19 years old I had a tumor in my throat. Thankfully it was benign but I always remember the operation to remove it because I'd been scared, they didn't knock me out to take it, and it was the size of a golf ball when they showed it to me.
That and some kid dumped his bike as my mother was driving me home from the hospital and it hurt like hell to laugh at the goofy bastard going over the handlebars.
Anywhoha...
Following that surgery I was in a bad way for a few days.
I was drinking dinner (and not in the good way), and as you know, whining about my pain.
On about day 3 my Dad tried to talk me into eating solid food.
I remember being nasty about it.
He made it anyway.
He brought a full plate of pasta to the living room and set it about a foot from my nose.
"I know you can't eat," he said. "But just in case."
As I was telling Sam the story the other night he started laughing.
"Like a dog," he said.
He didn't even ask if I ate it.
Which I did.
Probably before my Dad ever hit the stairs.
So I turned on the rigatoni last night.
I made a real soft sauce for it without too much garlic or onion.
"Can you eat it without losing it?" Sam asked.
"I guess we'll see," I said.
It never stood a chance.
12 hours later, I feel great.
Thank you, pasta.
Thank you, Poppa.
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