Yesterday we did something very unusual for us–we took part of the day off.
But we didn’t go to the beach or anything like that. Instead we visited a midweek farmers market in a nearby city, investigating whether it might makes sense for us to become a vendor there in the future.
Because we were away from home at lunchtime, we did something else very unusual for us–we ate at a restaurant.
We chose a funky coffeehouse joint where we’d eaten in the past. The last time we were there we both had delicious vegetarian omelettes, and Cherie ordered one again this time. But my eye was caught by another item on the menu–identified as one of their specialties. Fish and chips.
It was a gloriously salty deep-fried lunch. I cleaned my plate and was a happy man.
But only for about an hour. Then my stomach commenced a full-scale riotous protest. I’ll spare y’all the details.
I can’t remember the last time I’d eaten deep-fried food, but it’s been many years. It seems that years of healthy food have left my innards unwilling to accommodate greasy french fries and battered deep-fried fish. Lesson learned.
The other meals I had yesterday were more to my body’s liking. For breakfast–shakshouka and cantaloupe, for supper–a pork chop, an okra/peppers/rice dish and watermelon. Everything but the rice we grew ourselves.
That’s the kind of food my stomach is used to now.