Tummy Dearest

I never really appreciated you, my loyal, trusty stomach until you crapped out on me during our recent trip to Vermont.

I knew things were not right when, as I studied a plate of rib eye (medium rare), scalloped potatoes, and baby string beans, you groaned up to me that you were not able to participate. I can’t even recall the last time you could not answer the call to duty.

You have always been my reliable, eager partner in our gustatory shenanigans. Every buffet, cocktail hour, cookout, was a challenge you welcomed. “Bring it on”, you would say in your husky grumble. Try the goat? Sure, you would gurgle.

You swelled with pride when Kathie would pat you and say that she thought you could grind down pig iron. You jiggled with glee the time the waiter at the Spanish restaurant asked if we would like to pack up what was left in our Paella pot. Upon seeing there was nothing there he said: “Oh, you ate it all. Most people don’t.” It was one of our finest moments.

You have always had my best interests at heart, but I have let you down on too many occasions. You know that we may have hit a bumpy patch with me being jobless, so you, like the good half Irish stomach you are, have been bulking up for the Starving Time. And how do I thank you? Would it kill me to go to a larger pants size so you can have a little comfort? My false pride says no, so you are forced to dangle beyond the beltway exposed and alone.

And you have always had the best interests of mankind at heart, as well. You knew, as our Mom told us, children in China would starve if we didn’t clean our plate. A lifetime of clean plates? China an economic juggernaut? Coincidence? I don’t think so!

Still, in the words of Kenny Rogers, You Picked A Bad Time To Leave Me, Lucille.
On vacation, no less...On the American Plan, no less...gourmet meals every night, no less. If I didn’t know you better, I would say it was spiteful, almost bilious, on your part.

Still, I am sure it was something that I did to upset you. Kathie blames my using the old ice cubes in the personal fridge that was in our room. Maybe so, but how was I to chill my glass of wine without walking 100 feet to the ice machine? I would have had to put my shoes back on. You know me better than that.

I am proud of you though. You rallied on the last night and made short work of a shrimp scallopine and finished with a flourish by downing the carrot cake.

What is that you say? Isn’t the damn chicken done yet? That’s my boy!