Oh the grilled cheese sandwich! Worth an ode at least, an epic saga at best. I forgot (yeah, I forget a lot) those grilled cheese sandwiches, and their miraculous powers now that you mention them. In 4 to 5 minutes, I could watch you go from mewling and pewling on the couch or your bed--it was too scary to go into the lion's den sometimes--and shout "Grilled cheese?" (your wants and needs at that point were very simple), you'd moan something primal that sounded like, "Yeeeessssss" and off I'd go to whip up the Patient Pacifier. I never thought about the missing gall bladder (we weren't aware of that at first) and having none myself, I know you need to watch your food. I wish I'd gone for the no-fat cheese, and cook the thing in a light coat of Pam spray. Oh well, you grew better, healthier, more energetic, but that took a good long time. I was grateful to have you in my care, like when you were a little one. My mothering skills, so rusted and dusty, were fired up and I like to think I came through for you--cotton sheets in the hospital, foot massages, clean clothes, edible meals, and a whole lotta love. When you came home, that first day, we had made some meal for you--can't remember what it was--and you sat at the table, showered, dressed, and doing a great imitation of a regular kinda gal. Your elbows were on the table and for once I said nothing about that possible outdated piece of Table Manners in which I was marinated. You got the fork in your hand, you looked at your plate, and just as I was thinking thank god she's home, and what a good meal we have here, you dropped your head closer to the plate, and tears started to pool in the food. Oh that was painful to see your efforts and your sorrows. It was big. And now look at you--making dinner for US, over which we shed tears of gratitude that you came back from the dead to lecture us on nutrition. Brava Nora, you are a rock and a mighty wind at the same time. Blessings.
Oh the grilled cheese sandwich! Worth an ode at least, an epic saga at best. I forgot (yeah, I forget a lot) those grilled cheese sandwiches, and their miraculous powers now that you mention them. In 4 to 5 minutes, I could watch you go from mewling and pewling on the couch or your bed--it was too scary to go into the lion's den sometimes--and shout "Grilled cheese?" (your wants and needs at that point were very simple), you'd moan something primal that sounded like, "Yeeeessssss" and off I'd go to whip up the Patient Pacifier. I never thought about the missing gall bladder (we weren't aware of that at first) and having none myself, I know you need to watch your food. I wish I'd gone for the no-fat cheese, and cook the thing in a light coat of Pam spray. Oh well, you grew better, healthier, more energetic, but that took a good long time. I was grateful to have you in my care, like when you were a little one. My mothering skills, so rusted and dusty, were fired up and I like to think I came through for you--cotton sheets in the hospital, foot massages, clean clothes, edible meals, and a whole lotta love. When you came home, that first day, we had made some meal for you--can't remember what it was--and you sat at the table, showered, dressed, and doing a great imitation of a regular kinda gal. Your elbows were on the table and for once I said nothing about that possible outdated piece of Table Manners in which I was marinated. You got the fork in your hand, you looked at your plate, and just as I was thinking thank god she's home, and what a good meal we have here, you dropped your head closer to the plate, and tears started to pool in the food. Oh that was painful to see your efforts and your sorrows. It was big. And now look at you--making dinner for US, over which we shed tears of gratitude that you came back from the dead to lecture us on nutrition. Brava Nora, you are a rock and a mighty wind at the same time. Blessings.