Grief for Digestion.

My mother, bless her heart, cannot cook. She always manages to deviate away from recipes to add her own..."flair." Among her past conquests is blended corn poured over wild rice, a health food craze that resulted in flourless bread, and whole baby carrots in my sandwiches. With mayo. Today, this tendency leaves me sitting here on a perfect thursday afternoon staring at a smoothie.

And, dear ones, this isn't just any smoothie.

This smoothie has a banana, unpitted cherries, and questionable mint ice cream that expired... last march.

There are bits of chocolate chip in it.

It doesn't have a smoothie texture, exactly, either. It's a cross between a strange icy soup and the result of a five year old happily mashing his food into unrecognizable little chunks.

Housewife she is not.

And so here I stare at the tall, tall, tall glass happily given to me.

I decide to set aside any notions of gourmet, remember that she labors to produce anything, forget my gastrointestinal tract, and spoon the stuff into my mouth as fast as I can.

The aroma of the blender's burning rubber permeates the air.

I have just pulled out a piece of pineapple. I didn't think we had any purchased in the last month.

I have a feeling that Pepto and I will become bosom buddies by the end of this night. Lovely.