I’ll Never Do This Again – Until Next Time
WHAT WAS I THINKING? I know better than to behave like that. Alas, I will end up paying for that the next day and for several days after that. It was stupid – legal, but stupid.
Just about every Sunday we – my wife, the lovely and theologically eloquent, Dawn, and I go out for lunch with friends. After church we gather our amiable selves and head off to the preselected dining destination of the day. Our Sunday choices range from small neighborhood cafes where the chef looks like everybody’s Grandmother and no two plates match up – all the way to those Monster All-You-Can-Eat Buffets that always charge too much.
If there is one thing that Terre Haute (That’s French for “We have one restaurant for each inhabitant.”) has it is places to eat. In just the one stop light between our home and the nearby St. Arbucks there are nine places to eat (Not counting the Pancake House that recently burned.). Fifteen restaurants of varying quality and this isn’t along a major thoroughfare. If you get onto a really busy street the restaurants are stacked up like high cholesterol dominoes.
We have hit most of Terre Haute’s eateries on our Sunday excursions. And that is where I screwed the pooch.
I really don’t lobby for one place over another. If you’ve seen one menu, you’ve seen them all.
This past Sunday the gathering place had been chosen by majority rule. We were headed off to a fine place, “Piloni’s Italian Restaurant.” I could not complain. It is a fine place in a poor neighborhood. It is a really good restaurant.
There were six of us around that nice big table in their “Lounge Room.” It is nice and quiet compared to the main dining area and has floor to ceiling murals that look more French than Italian in style.
The menu looked really good and before I could say “Yummy” two different styles of warm bread sticks were being passed around the table.
Why did I dive onto those delicious bread sticks like that? I ended up feeling quasi-full even before my Veal Parmigiana showed up. I didn’t let that stop me. I took a bite of that veal and all thoughts of moderation melted away. All of us did that as well. We ate and talked, swallowed, rinsed and repeated. After twenty minutes my plate looked like I hadn’t made a dent on that mountain of hot delicious meat and pasta.
By the time we were finished and the “To-Go” boxes had been passed out I felt that I was ready to pass out as well.
Later on Sunday evening, after I woke up from my long post-prandial coma, I heard Dawn say, “Its dinner time.” The clock may have said, “Dinner Time,” but my Gastro-Intestinal tract said, “Come near me and I’ll shoot!”
A monumental gluttonous gorging like I had wallowed in last Sunday cannot be thought of as a one day event. The Input may be on Sunday, but the Output can last for days. It can be positively Volcanic followed by several days of slow-motion Lava Flow inundating everything you know and love.
No matter how you describe the aftermath of something like my Sunday Slopping of the Hogs it ain’t gonna be pretty – with Garlic.