I've been off my feed of late. That's an extremely indelicate turn of phrase, isn't it? I think it's what's commonly used to refer to barnyard animals refusing their mash. Although I may occasionally pretend to a certain gentility, I hereby confess to a definite liking for those animalistic-type idiomatic expressions. "Off my feed." It's almost, although not quite, as good as inviting one's dinner guests to "strap on the ol' feed bag."
In any case, I just haven't been able to shake intermittent shooting stomach cramps, headaches, laggardly sleep patterns and just general, all-round feelings of malaise. My sinus infection is long gone, but I had to remain on a course of antibiotics for 10 days -- and then I had to take some more antibiotics to clear up the symptoms brought on by the first round of antibiotics. I never react well to these drugs, but this time I feel like the cure has been worse than the illness.
I had chalked all the sickness up to drugs in my system -- but then G was mysteriously stricken with dizziness/vertigo and a raging fever, all without any particular respiratory or intestinal symptoms. Very strange.
So all this leaves us with the sad truth that food just hasn't been of much interest to either of us for some little time now. I mean we do get hungry, and we do eat -- I just don't get a yen for anything in particular, and I eat to fill my belly rather than to satisfy an appetite.
It's a bit strange to feel this way, so uncaring about meals; I guess I wonder if this is how other people live. You know who I mean: the people who call you "Betty Crocker" or "Suzie Homemaker" behind your back because you bring homebaked goodies to work to share with them (or I guess if you're a guy they call you "Emeril" or "Ace of Cakes" or something like that). They're the same folks who seem think it's an act of horrendous vanity or grievous indulgence to put time or effort into farm-market shopping and homemade meals -- who have more or less made a virtue not only of eating grim frozen pizza and joyless chicken nuggets, but of giving them to their kids as well. So many people behave as if they're somehow above caring about what they eat; feeding themselves a few times a day is a burden, rather than any sort of pleasure (although a lot of them confess to watching the Food Channel -- which many of the people I know who actually cook, almost never do. I, for example, usually reserve the Food Channel for when I'm strapped into a Jet Blue seat with 37 channels of DirectTV in my face -- or if I'm getting a pedicure, and they have the close-caption on). And sometimes, some of these non-cooking-type people act as if you (because you DO care about food, and what you eat, and what other people eat) are someone who is simply not to be taken seriously in any other arena.
What it makes me realize is that the act of taking joy in my food is, in itself, a pleasure to me. And when I don't feel the pleasure in the pleasure that I normally take, that in itself makes me melancholic, if not downright miserable.
This morning we went to do some necessary food shopping, since there were regular staples that we needed. And I stood in the cold room at Fairway, surrounded by thousands of pounds of comestibles, and couldn't think of a single thing that I actually wanted to cook or eat.
I just have to wait a bit until this passes, which it surely will, and I will be back here at AFIEP with something delicious to tell about or try or share. I'll hang in there, and hopefully you will, too, till it's time to strap on the ol' feed bag again.