Ouch. Ouchouchouchouchouch. Ouch.
Forgive any egregious typos or inelegant phrasing, but I'm currently propped up on a mountain of sofa pillows, trusty whippet wedged under my knees, with my teeth gritted, trying not to whimper too pathetically and about to go out of my mind with want for Cream of Wheat. Yeah, I'm a food editor and probably oughta be keeping up some pretense of all my meals consisting of ethically sourced organic hogget terrine and all manner of complicated grains misted in butter from cows that vacation in Biarritz. But right now, I'm laid up with nasty back spasms and I just want hot cereal.
Bread and butter would do, too - just the generic, but satisfyingly crunchy Italian roll that came with the Papardelle Bolognese my husband and I ordered in the other night. Or eggs, nothing fancy, just very lightly whisked, fried in bubbling butter and flecked with Tabasco - maybe a sprinkle of smoked salt if I don't have to reach up too high in the cabinet.
When I'm down for the count, I go back to the basics. This doesn't mean dull, necessarily - just familiar. To me, the apotheosis of that is Cream of Wheat cooked cement hard, with a dash of hot sauce, crunchy salt and a shaving of whatever hard cheese is in the house - Parmesan, Romano, Asiago. I go savory because sweet makes me feel like an invalid and I'm incredibly bad at being coddled. The hot sauce allows me to feel as if I have a fighting chance, and if there is bread, it's got to be almost cruelly crusty, so I can wage battle against my food, even if the rest of my body is at war with itself.
(And...crap - the whippet just ate my toast.)