Today, you join a sick, sick man.
This will come as no huge shock to a fair few of you lovely people, especially when the various definitions of the word ‘sick’ get taken into account, but nonetheless, it’s true.
And the horrible thing? The true terror of all terrors regarding my current under-the-weather-ness? It’s all my fault.
The Blame Game
I know, it’s a difficult concept to parse. It’s not like I’m some hugely irresponsible ne'er-do-well with little care for their own welfare. It’s not that I’ve ever ignored the signs of ill health or let sheer bloody-mindedness overrule sensible precautions, or that I’ve ever ended up in hospital due to those exact same reasons.
Oh, wait.
It all started last Wednesday, when, having spent the previous evening celebrating my birthday with the traditional accompaniments (alcohol and more alcohol), I decided that a tuna pasta bake, with plenty of veg, would make for a lovely, healthy, home cooked supper.
Which it did.
Portion Control
Of course, there is only myself and my increasingly long-suffering wife, Tina, in our household to feed, but I seem to be pathologically incapable of measuring out enough pasta (or rice, for that matter) for two people without ending up with enough food to send the 5000 home with full bellies and a doggy bag each. This meant there were left-overs a-plenty.
Into the freezer, you say? No, I simply left it in the pan for the next day’s supper.
Now, this is not something which is entirely unheard of in the Rankin household. I have a tendency to make large meals for multiple days and leaving the leftovers to cool gently in the pan, covering them and then consuming the surplus the next night has never, not once, led to any digestive mishaps. To be fair, it didn’t in this particular incidence, either.
No, that was saved for the third night’s helping.
Which it did.
Portion Control
Of course, there is only myself and my increasingly long-suffering wife, Tina, in our household to feed, but I seem to be pathologically incapable of measuring out enough pasta (or rice, for that matter) for two people without ending up with enough food to send the 5000 home with full bellies and a doggy bag each. This meant there were left-overs a-plenty.
Into the freezer, you say? No, I simply left it in the pan for the next day’s supper.
Now, this is not something which is entirely unheard of in the Rankin household. I have a tendency to make large meals for multiple days and leaving the leftovers to cool gently in the pan, covering them and then consuming the surplus the next night has never, not once, led to any digestive mishaps. To be fair, it didn’t in this particular incidence, either.
No, that was saved for the third night’s helping.
At this stage, Tina had wisely decided that three-day-old tuna pasta bake was probably a bad idea, but I, rather stupidly, decided to waste-not-want-not and plate up the smallish portion that remained.
It was a bad idea.
Fright Night
Despite tasting fine, the food stayed with me for all of half an episode of The Handmaid’s Tale (Heavily recommended if you haven’t seen it) before deciding to leave in rather a hurry. This was the start of one of the more unpleasant nights of my life. I won’t horrify you with the details. Suffice it to say, it featured a toilet, a bowl, and not a lot of sleep.
At about half-past three in the morning, the dramatics had subsided to the point I felt safe leaving the sanctuary of the loo. To be fair, I had already made it to the lounge (with both doors leading to the loo wide open for ease of access) for a cup of sweet tea and some pathetic groaning while I let my stomach completely calm. Bed seemed like an unnecessary risk until the dry-heaving and cramps died down, but luckily I found a channel showing back-to-back episodes of Buffy the Vampire Slayer, so every cloud and all that.
The last few days, I have understandably, been a little below par. My ordeal was a decent way to lose a few pounds (and the rest), but it left me drained, and, for some reason, craving fried chicken. It’s also left me with a new understanding of food hygiene and a wholehearted unwillingness to experiment with its cutting edge ever again. No,from now on, the leftovers are getting cooled, then frozen to be eaten another day. I might even invest in some labels, you never know (well, you don’t without labels. Could be anything in that tupperware).
Fright Night
Despite tasting fine, the food stayed with me for all of half an episode of The Handmaid’s Tale (Heavily recommended if you haven’t seen it) before deciding to leave in rather a hurry. This was the start of one of the more unpleasant nights of my life. I won’t horrify you with the details. Suffice it to say, it featured a toilet, a bowl, and not a lot of sleep.
At about half-past three in the morning, the dramatics had subsided to the point I felt safe leaving the sanctuary of the loo. To be fair, I had already made it to the lounge (with both doors leading to the loo wide open for ease of access) for a cup of sweet tea and some pathetic groaning while I let my stomach completely calm. Bed seemed like an unnecessary risk until the dry-heaving and cramps died down, but luckily I found a channel showing back-to-back episodes of Buffy the Vampire Slayer, so every cloud and all that.
The last few days, I have understandably, been a little below par. My ordeal was a decent way to lose a few pounds (and the rest), but it left me drained, and, for some reason, craving fried chicken. It’s also left me with a new understanding of food hygiene and a wholehearted unwillingness to experiment with its cutting edge ever again. No,from now on, the leftovers are getting cooled, then frozen to be eaten another day. I might even invest in some labels, you never know (well, you don’t without labels. Could be anything in that tupperware).
Yeah, here, bloody-well endeth the lesson
Until (hopefully) next week.
Until (hopefully) next week.
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