Because of my surgery on Monday, I haven’t had the opportunity to write too much lately. Nothing of great quality. I will of course, spare you the gory details of my time under the knife. However, the unfortunateness of it all is mostly felt on the palet, for my diet is limited to foods with mushy textures such as soups. Due to this, I have become quite fond of the Tomato Bisque that is available in the cafeteria at my current place of employment. The diced tomatoes are robust, with creme fresh and basil and thyme. There were sourdough croutons available but that was out of the question.
After consuming the soup yesterday afternoon, I suddenly felt better. The pain from the surgery was not gone but my mood had improved. My work seemed more focused where before it had lacked detail. I was astonished. I wanted more.
As I entered the building this morning; gauze smartly inserted between cheek and gum, I had visions of clouds. Clouds made of soup. Orange pillows of basil filled goodness. But when I stepped up to the counter and mumbled to the short Indian woman, whose name I could not pronounce, that I would love a large bowl of tomato, I was met with nothing less then pure sorrow. They were out of tomato bisque. It Its place was a cream of broccoli that smelled good enough so I snatched a bowl and went to my desk.
With spoon in hand I smiled as I shoveled a portion into my mouth.
There are words that I could use to describe the taste of that, that, that mess that was considered food, but I will choose not to utter them.
I asked a coworker if they wanted the soup and happily handed it over. The stench of death is upon my tongue. “The funk of 40,000 years.” I should’ve know better. (My life is a Beatles song only with soup). I have learned my lesson. Broccoli goes with nothing.