While Brooke and I recovered from our respective illnesses this weekend, we thought it would be a good idea to make other people take care of us so we could take a break from caring for each other. We figured the best way to do this would be to have her father take us out to brunch. We considered other options, like staying home and resting or eating soup and not getting drunk, but in the end we thought it best to go a more traditional route, with gratis Bloody Marys at a restaurant we couldn’t normally afford. Oh, and spending time with the people you love.
I think the recuperative powers of free food are highly underrated by the medical community. As our society places increased emphasis on medication, we lose sight of the most basic tenet of life, that being happy means being healthy. I am never so happy as when someone gives me good, free food. Luckily, Brooke shares this sentiment with me. On her list of Top Three Things I Love About Life, I am tied for first place along with Puppy and burritos. I’m not sure she understood the game.
At brunch, Brooke and I took full advantage of the wealth of drugs being offered us in the form of chocolate croissants, Bloody Marys, French toast, all things “benedict,” and, surprisingly to me, salmon. Brooke is Jewish, and of the many differences we share (her killing my savior, etc.) the one that I was having the most trouble with was eating fish for breakfast. I was taught that fish were strictly dinner food. Maybe on the weekends you could eat fish sticks for lunch, but by and large if it came from the ocean you couldn’t partake until after 6:00. I imagine if my family was ever stranded on a desert island and my father caught a fish to cook for lunch my mother would suggest maybe coconut instead. Or perhaps a turkey sandwich, because I also don’t imagine my mom understanding how desert islands work. But never fish.
Of course I caved under the pressure and tried salmon (or as they call it in Hebrew, “lox”) and found it to be not bad. Maybe I am more nurture over nature, or maybe more Catholic over Jewish, but I still prefer peanut butter on my bagel. (Cue fist pump from my mother.)
However, as a compromise between my oh-so-gentile French toast and the lavish meals everyone else was eating, Brooke’s father and I then shared a hamburger for dessert. And as I ate myself way past the point of full and well back onto the road to good health, I saw an approving glint in her father’s eye. Although it could very well have been a tear in his eye, or a tear in my eye as we both lamented the ordering of the hamburger not long after it arrived, but I will say this: It was the most delicious free hamburger I never wanted to eat, and today I am feeling much, much better.