It was a phlegmy slide from Friday into Saturday. By 3pm Mike and I still hadn’t eaten a thing, so I turned the about-to-be-chucked stump of (three) day-old French bread sitting on the counter into French toast. I haven’t had French toast in eons, but it was all I could muster making, and although my stomach was rumbling louder than the nearby trains, it was all I could imagine eating.
Coincidentally, I just got an assignment to write a short piece on chicken soup and other food remedies and whether or not there is any substance to the old wives’ tales of cure-alls for the common cold and flu. Since no food lore required me to drown my phlegm in milkshakes, I made a pot of chickenoodle soup instead. Which I haven’t really had an appetite for since I was pregnant – roasted chicken was the worst, for some reason – so Mike ate some, W picked out the meat and noodles, and I ate more grapes, a spoonful of peanut butter and a Coke.