Just outside St. Joseph’s Hospital’s emergency waiting room…
Beast: Well, what’s wrong with you?
Foodie: The doctor says I have Plantar Fasciitis. It’s basically an inflammation of the ligament that runs the length of the bottom of my foot. And that’s why the toe beside my big toe has on occasion been feeling prickly and hot too.
Beast: What caused it?
Foodie: He said jumping and running, or bad posture or bad footwear.
Beast: I think it’s from all the jumping you do.
Foodie: What jumping?
Beast: I’m joking. Is it permanent? What do you do to fix it?
Foodie: He said to freeze a water bottle and roll it around with my foot. I don’t know if it’s permanent.
Beast: You didn’t ask?
Beast: Well how long should you stay off it?
Foodie: I don’t know.
Beast: Didn’t you ask any questions?
Foodie: Ah, let me think. No. He was very handsome though–like an Asian Bradley Cooper.
Beast: Wow. I can’t believe you don’t know if you’ll be afflicted with this forever or what you have to do to fix it.
Foodie: He said to just ice it and that’s all I could do. And then he asked me if I wanted something for the pain. And I said, “What do you think?” And he said, “Well, pain is relative.” And then I said, “Well yes please, I’ll have whatever it is you were about to prescibe.” So let’s go to the pharmacy and get me some Tylenol 3!
Beast: May I have some?
Foodie: Sure! But maybe we shouldn’t have them at the same time. Doctor said they really knock you out and somebody is going to have to take care of me today. I need to rest my plancktar scilliakitosis.
And the Beast rose to the occasion with surprising finess. He rented five movies–maybe not movies I would pick out–but at least they weren’t documentaries on dead Jazz musicians so couldn’t really complain.
And then there was dinner. I had made fun of the Beast last week for buying a $10 family size frozen lasagna from Loblaws. But I wasn’t laughing when it came out of the oven. It got gloriously crispy–maybe even a touch burnt–but that’s how I like it.
The Beast also made a caesar salad and sliced up a warmed and buttered Ace Bakery baguette. I don’t know if it was the Preston Sturges’ Palm Beach Story that we watched with dinner, or the fire we had going, or the Tylenol 3, but it was the finest frozen lasagna dinner a girl with planter’s scillaactisosis could ask for.
And it just kept getting better! The Beast prepared me some of the rhubarb crisp I’d baked before I was afflicted with my serious foot ailment. I must say, it’s one of the best ones I’ve made too, I think because the January rhubarb right now is so gloriously pink and perfect.
Why yes, that is a quenelle of vanilla ice cream on top. You see earlier that morning, before our trip to the emergency room, I was reading the paper and drinking coffee and I got all in a puff over something that Joanne Kates wrote in her Globe and Mail review of Gilead Bistro: she said, “I doubt anyone under 40 even knows what a quenelle is.”
Foodie: How can she be so out of touch? I bet the millions of people that watch Top Chef, Hell’s Kitchen, and nearly every show on the Food Network, know what a quenelle is. I mean, food, the history of food, and gastronomy in general, aren’t just discourses that interest a select few anymore. But she hangs on to that sort of elitist misapprehension, and reveals it in some way in nearly every one of her columns.
Beast: What’s a quenelle?
Foodie: Are you joking?! It’s when you take two spoons and–
Beast: Oh that! I love quenelles!
To prove it, the Beast quenelled some ice cream on top of my rhubarb crisp. I was very impressed. But all of his nursing, cooking, dish washing and quenelling must have really tuckered the poor thing out: he promptly fell asleep on the couch, with his head on my lap. I stayed up and watched the Swedish almost-horror movie, Let the Right One In. I was too scared to fall asleep.
Gosh, I hate to say it, but considering how much attention I got, I almost don’t mind having a case of plainold shitiousness. The hospital bracelet now sits on our mantel. I plan on wearing it whenever I don’t want to cook or do dishes.
Footnote: I do not make a habit of visiting the emergency room in place of seeing my family doctor. In fact, I had called my doctor on Saturday morning but he wasn’t in. His receptionist said I ought to go to emergency, and the Beast concurred when he saw that I could not walk down the stairs.