I was home sick today, which on the surface looked like any other weekday: I was unwashed and unkempt, clad in fleece and wool and slippers made to resemble sock monkeys. But instead of working, today I spent the day doing nothing.
Literally nothing. I got up at 8:00 a.m. and will be going to bed sometime soon, but I cannot tell you what I've been doing in between, because I don't know. I didn't nap, I don't have a fever, but the entire day seems to have passed without my noticing.
Although I can tell you what I ate: Peanut butter toast. Lots and lots of cookies. Homemade vegetable soup. And a nice little bowl of Gruel for the Sickly: beans and rice with a soft-boiled egg.
It's not pretty, I know. But it's blandly flavorful, if that makes any sense. Nothing spicy to irritate a sore throat, nothing rich to upset a stomach, but hearty and comforting, nonetheless, salty and yolky and delicious.
The yachtsman doesn't like the adjective "yolky." And he doesn't like Gruel for the Sickly, either. "If it were 1955," he said as he laid on the couch while I prepared my food, his feet up, hands clasped beneath his head, "you'd be making me dinner." Methinks the lad doth watch Mad Men too much.