BACON AND BARS
So, a Kitchen Witch and a stomach virus walk into a bar . . .
Could anything be more ironic? For the last four days, I have been unable to eat. Strangely, SKW has also been unable to cook–which at first, just didn’t make good sense.  Now, I was tickled pink (at first) to find out that six pounds have slid off my rear over the holiday season, two pounds of butter and five pounds of taters later. The laughter has been abated. Turns out, y’all, that all of my theories on sustenance and transference through food are dead on and are knocking me on my ‘Bama knees to prove it.
Every time I have come to my kitchen with sickness or sorrow, anger or frustration, my food has reflected it. I have been known to scrape out an entire meal (to the wails of my tribe) on account of it just wasn’t right. Of course, they thought it was fine, had redeeming potential and were knawing-on-table-legs hungry–but no way, no how was that food going down their blessed throats. Simply put, we are what we eat, and no son of mine is going to be miserable via mashed potatoes. Not on my watch. What’s got my goat (or as a dear, Northern-turned-Southern friend of mine says: frosts my cookies) is my current inability to cook–but I’ve never been unable to feast before now. Looks like a learning op for this old gal.
So, a Kitchen Witch and a stomach virus walk into a bar. The SKW says: I’ll have what he’s having. SV says: I’m having her.
Well, damn. Guess I’m finally tasty.
But wait–a memory tickles my brain. About two years ago, SKW caught the swine flu. Yup. That beast that took down all sorts of folk for weeks (and a few for good) swam up my veins and yelled howdy. Now, I’m a busy little lady: teaching, writing, rearing men children and variously working myself near dead most of the time. I had a new husband (well, he still had that new fella smell) and was not about to be out of commission in that arena, if y’all get my drift. There I was, pissed as a wet cat, fever of 103 and sitting at my table tapping my fingers. Wait it out, they said. Lay down, they told me. That’s when it hit: screw that. Swine flu, is it? Well then. I fried up exactly two pounds of bacon, uncorked a two liter wine bottle and went to battle. I wanted to hear that virus squeal like the nasty little piggy it was–all the way home. Made it a cannibal, I did. I figure: it was trying to eat me. Maybe it needed a little taste of itself, the little porker.
The next morning, when the sun hit my face, that squeal was inaudible and my cheeks were piggy pink. In a joke it would go something like:
A Kitchen Witch and the swine flu walk into a bar. SKW says: I’ll have what he’s having. SF says: I’m having her. SKW says: naw baby, that’s the other white meat. Bon appetite.
I think I’m onto something here. You see, sometimes bad energy aka illness aka bad luck aka whatever is not of your own doing. (If I were to believe that everything that happens to someone is all their own fault, how then could I factor rape?) Naw, sometimes we are invaded by forces beyond our control, wiped out, knocked down or just downright taken over by something nasty and rough. We’ve spoken before on taking bad energy and making it gold–but what happens when it’s a force of nature?
Ride that bitch. Ride her hard. I’ve seen cancer victims stand in the face of death with bravery and grace, rape victims pat the hand of a prisoner and abused dogs within an inch of their lives come back to save the life of a human in need. Ride. Whining is useless, and in the South, uncouth. Pity pots are good for shit, literally. Fight, I always say, for it’s better than crawling away to die in the mud.
You know, there are so many movie moments that get to me, but the ones that slam it home are always when the hero (or anti-hero) looks in the face of Death in perfect calm, perfect peace. While I am not in that position (at least, I hope not yet), I need the practice. So . . .
A Kitchen Witch and a stomach virus walk into a bar. The bartender leans in and says: only one of y’all are getting out of here alive. SKW replies: I wouldn’t want to live with that sumbitch, anyway.
Don’t worry, y’all. I’ll give up on cooking the day pigs fly (and if they try it, I’ll get a bow and arrow and make chops for dinner). The good witch always wins. I’ll be back.
Love and Kisses,
 No one holds a moratorium on acronyms. Or having a blog. Or wearing blue jeans. Get over it.
 My son has always used the phrase “bullspit” when something was just too nasty to be anything else. I have heard some pretty barbaric ideas about folks getting ill and how this is, pretty much, their own fault. While there are karmic payments for injustices and bad energy, there are also outright attacks from other sources that are not justified or justifiable. Sometimes they are a test. Sometimes they are bad magic. Sometimes a virus entered your body without so much as a “hocus pocus.” After discussing this concept with him this morning, my oldest son was offended that someone would be so cruel as to think that illness or pain is always deserved and brought on only by one’s Wyrd. He also found it extremely egotistical. After discussing it a bit, he had a “wyrd” for the whole shabang: “bullspit!”