Feed a fever

So the Goat comes home from work last night to find me coughing and sneezing and wheezing on the couch.

"Nuke some leftover cabbage rolls," I say with half-closed eyes amid my crumpled tissues. He totters off to the kitchen.

I blink at the television and realize I'm hungry. But it is sick hungry, not regular normal hungry, which means it is sort of false and involves cravings.

I rummage through the pantry for a can of pineapple, dump it into a bowl and make a couple of pieces of buttered toast. My dearly beloved and I converge at the table for a satisfying yet somber meal, the sounds of tableware and chewing punctuated by my sniffles.

I regard the ounce or so of pineapple juice at the bottom of the bowl, retrieve the Ketel One from the freezer, which contains an equal amount of vodka. Two ice cubes go into a Mason jar, then the juice and hooch.

Call that a remedy.

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