This morning J made me an egg – a whole, lovely, egg with yolk AND white – on a toasted English muffin. An Egg McMuffin, basically. It was the food of the gods. The crunch of the muffin, the good texture of a whole egg – so far superior to just the gelatinous whites I’ve been eating – and a hint of butter. How can it be that there will come a time when I take food for granted once again?
I poured some almond milk – by this point I am so many weeks removed from my morning cappuccino that I’m not even craving a hot beverage – and sipped it and then the timer rang for the tortellini for the kids’ lunch, which had been boiling on the stove. I knew there were a few extra in the pot, so I skimmed some off before adding the tomato sauce to them, and sat down for a little breakfast lagniappe. The moment the pasta casing yielded the creamy, salty, cheesy filling I thought I could weep. It was a reunion in the most primal sense, an end to deprivation, a sense of restored order. And it caused absolutely no pain.
I’m torn between calling the nutritionist and confessing my transgression (dairy wasn’t really on the agenda for anytime soon), and not calling her and finding my own best path to getting well. I suppose a phone call can’t hurt. For now I am curled back up in bed, still grinning like an idiot at the way the flavor broke across my entire being.