When I am sick I have no desire to eat or drink. My usual oh-so-good appetite implodes. “Force fluids” is a good idea other than I become the wicked witch of the west when it comes to wanting water. However there are exceptions: I will get a fancy to eat something odd or outrageous. The rationale is at least it’s something. On his way to the grocery store, Someone asked me if he could get me anything. Yes, I replied: a tin of Spaghetti-Os and a tin of Chef Boyardee Mini-ravoli. My temperature was immediately taken to see if I had fever. No, I was not in a delirium. Out of nowhere these comfort foods from my past sounded appetizing.
Mind! I haven’t had either of these delicacies since I was ten which is a good forty years ago. I wondered if they were still around, but they were. The cans were instantly recognized when they were unpacked.
There is something disgusting about canned pasta. I didn’t bother to read the ingredients but I suspect both are chock-full of sodium and hidden sugars. My nose is congested but I could discern just enough aroma from the opened tin to instantly remember the redolence. I used to eat these things all the time, usually with grilled cheese sandwiches. I was again ten years old sitting in the kitchen on Faircourt St.
The mini-ravoli had a lot more sauce in the tin than I recall. I suppose sauce is cheaper than ravoli. I put a few scoops in a microwave container and two minutes later I had a piping hot bowl of comfort. It tasted fair; this is not ‘quality’ food, but it was satisfactory.
As is my wont I read while I eat which leads to spills. Sure enough, I dropped a ravioli down my front. It hit the counter corner with a good ‘splat’ and landed on the floor, much to the delight of Harper, who was waiting for just that.
I hope by tomorrow I have recovered enough to return to work. I wonder if by then my unnatural cravings will have dissipated to the point of not wanting the Spaghetti-Os. The can now sits in the pantry, waiting to comfort me whenever I should be in need of such.