Last Night Was Pleasant

As you can see by my smiling visage, last night's meal was pleasant. I'm quite getting into the swing of things with this food diary, and, if anything, it will allow me to savor once more the various flavors and textures of meals past, if but only in my memory.

For the evening repast, Debra prepared Andouille sausage Jambalaya, a personal favorite of mine even if the Bayou spices do tend to fill my diaper with a pungent offal in short order (but, I ask you, is this not a small price to pay?), a cheese plate of wondrous variety, and for dessert a pecan pie. My heart was ablaze with joy upon simply beholding this veritable feast laid out before my highchair, but then the joy turned to consternation and finally to fear, as I realized the burning sensation in my chest was not joy. O, no, dear reader! It was either searing gas pains or my very first heart attack. Neither one to be taken lightly.

I squirmed and wriggled in my (slightly too small) highchair, which Gene mistook for mirthfulness. Father, I cried out beseechingly, this is not mirth! I am in pain! Do not gird your loins to your firstborn man child! Do something! Help! Or, that is to say, I would have said these things. Alas, my speech has not kept pace with the development of my written communications. Panicked and pained, I scanned the kitchenette for a pad and pencil, all in vain, while that corpulent cask of crapulence hooted malignantly to Debra, "Oh Debbie, will you look at that? The little man is dancin'! He's a reg-lar American Idol."

But then, in one foul explosion coming simultaneously from fore and aft, my ailment revealed itself to be nothing more than the severest of gas pains (owing, no doubt, to the week-old carton of beef Lo Mein I'd discovered and made short work of while Gene and Debra napp'd on their twin beanbags while Dr. Phil brayed on meaninglessly in the background). The force of my flatulence practically lifted me from off my chair, while the burp acted as a type of retro-rocket, tilting me slightly off-center and tipping the highchair just enough for me to tumble roughly to the floor. Now, on any other day I would have howled at the indignity of such an outcome, but today I was simply too relieved to be free of the roiling, turgid pains in my chest and abdomen to give one further iota of thought to my graceless fall.

Picking me up and righting my chair and nearly doubled over with laughter, Gene remarked, "Wells, I guess the folks on America's Funniest Videos might be interested in Raoul too." I was about to launch into a tirade of protest, but Debra mollified me ably with a steaming bowl of Jambalaya. I quickly regained my composure and took a moment to take in the aromas and colors set before me. Such beauty! The crawfish! The sausages! The spices! Sheer heaven, this ambrosia!

I won't go into further detail, because what words can truly express the melange of flavors I experienced? What adjectives can capture the medley of tastes?

After the meal, Debra put me down in the nursery and, sleepy though I was, I simply stared at the off-white of my ceiling for a time (water-stained in an arresting pattern of swirls and semi-opaques) contemplating the future. What places would I live to see? What manner of strange people would I encounter? To what lengths would I go, one day, to satisfy my hunger? Then, quietly, unnoticeably, as if by some nepenthe, I slipped off into the sweet embrace of sleep.

Food Diary

Today I will begin keeping a food diary, just like my nutritionist, Dr. Stephy, suggested.

Day one: Woke hungry to a blustery morning, the endless plain visible through the gauzy blue curtains of my nursery. During the night, my wind-up mobile (hamburgers!) had wound down and Mother had not bothered to rewind as I slept. I will note her lack of vigilance.

Attempted (fruitlessly) to roll over in my crib, but was unable to do so. Stuck on my back, rocking side to side in order to build up the necessary momentum, the joints of my crib began to squeak ponderously. What this portended, I do not know. Eventually, Mother entered the nursery and with effort lifted me to her own ample bosom. Together we walked into the pantry, where she placed me on the floor while she prepared my first helping of pre-pumped breast milk (as you know, Debra refuses to breastfeed) mixed with Splenda.

While she bustled about I took stock of the grimed-over linoleum and contemplated, in my hunger, of eating what appeared to be a dusty Corn Flake. I attempted to scramble for it, but Mittens beat me to it and ran off to bury it, no doubt, in her litter box.

Defeated, I cried out.

Father ambled into the kitchen at this point, roused by my plaintive cries, and proceeded to berate Mother yet again. Since he lost his job at the Wal-Mart he's been on the testy side. His diabetes seems to be on the upswing, which has him gimpy and on edge as well.

He lifted me and affixed my Monday Night RAW bib and Mother finally (finally!) gave me the bottle I so sorely required. At this point I should mention that my digestive system is developed far beyond my scant 11 months, and although I'd prefer a hearty breakfast of sausage and eggs Mother still insists that I drink her milk at least once a day for reasons I cannot surmise.

I made short work of the bottle, but with second breakfast still two hours off and the rumble in my stomach barely satiated, I cannot help but wonder how and in what throes of agony and want I shall pass the time.

Why won't she call?

Sara Lee, you foul temptress! How long must I lie here in wait?

How long?