Supper

My stomach spoke. It said, “I just want to eat everything.”

And I said, “How about a peach?”

And it said, “Yeah right. How about something buttery? How about something salty? How about something decadent or spicy? Something loud, something crunchy, something belligerent that’ll mosh around in your mouth setting off every taste bud like a laser beam security system in a jewelry store.” It was quiet for a moment, thinking. “Do you have anything like that? Can you deep-fry macaroni and wrap it in bacon and dunk it in a vat of jalapeño cheese?”

I said, “You think I have a vat of jalapeño cheese just kicking around?”

My stomach shrugged, which felt funny.

I went to the fridge, because my stomach wanted me to and my stomach is like that girl in grade nine that can pretty much talk you into anything because you want to be her even though you don’t really like her as a person. I said, “See? This is what we’ve got.” 

My stomach grumbled.

I pulled out asparagus and mushrooms. I said, “This is healthy. This will make you feel better without making me feel worse.” 

My stomach said, “Okay. But bread it. Bread it in butter and flour and salt.”

I said, “Or we could have a peach?” 

My stomach said, “No. We couldn’t.”

I could’ve written this blog post in one sentence. It would’ve said, “Yesterday, I had breaded asparagus and mushrooms for supper with a side of cheesy spaghetti.” 

But whatever.