A blog written after 48 hours of having a stomach flu.
I hadn’t eaten in forty-eight hours. Weak with hunger, I hobbled to the kitchen, clutching a can of tomato soup in a death-grip. My vision warped the house into a nightmarish twilight zone of twisted architecture and impossible angles, but I ignored it all in the bee-line for the microwave.
The can had a pull-top lid, but I didn’t have the energy to be grateful. I wrenched it off with all the precision my apathetic muscles could provide and poured it into a bowl. A bowl. Where did the bowl come from? Did I…
Cans of tomato soup are surprisingly heavy, as are bowls. I tried to open the microwave with the bowl in one hand, but found that both hands were attempting two-handed activities. I set the bowl down with minimal spillage, and opted to open the microwave first.
Darn thing wouldn’t stay open. By the time I had lifted the bowl, it was resting against the latch. I put down the bowl, opened the door again, and tried to lift the bowl faster. No good. A mutiny in my head began: how bad can cold tomato soup be?
Finally, I lifted the bowl, and used the pinky of my left hand to open the microwave door. A few seconds later…it was in. I heaved a shallow sigh of relief. I even had the foresight to cover it with a paper towel.
To a person without accurate perception of time, three minutes is a virtual eternity. Too exhausted to stand, I slumped to the floor and stared, open-eyed like an owl, as the seconds ticked down.
The dog walked through the room to some other place in the house. Some time later, the dog came back through the room. Somebody came into the kitchen and made a cup of coffee. And waffles. Rome was built. Whatever.
It was finally done. I struggled to my feet, using first the counter and then the microwave door for assistance. I opened the door, and behold: there was my hot tomato soup! I attempted to rush it to the table, but only succeeded in tripping and nearly losing the fruit of all my effort (and only now do I see the pun… fruit… tomato…). I grabbed a spoon and an entire bag of bread, then sat down. I painstakingly removed the twist-tie from the bag of bread (per usual, I twisted the wrong way first) and took a slice.
I surveyed my kingly spread. It was time to dine. I dipped my spoon into the bowl and raised it to my mouth. And…it was awful. I had never had tomato soup before, but who would have known that such a ubiquitous side-dish could be so foul-tasting? Determined not to be too hasty, I tried dipping the bread, only to find that I had not procured normal bread, but “garlic asiago bread,” which is every bit as revolting as it sounds.
I stormed angrily to the sink where I dumped (nearly) a full can of tomato soup down the drain. The bread was tossed into the trash. Curses. Lacking the initiative to make anything else, I stormed to the computer. To write this.