Food, precious, I still love you truly, madly, deeply

If we assume that this statement is true: That which comes between two true loves is pure evil (and really, what kind of cold-hearted, dirty rotten nogoodnick would think otherwise); we can conclude, then, that stomach flu is pure evil.

Only pure evil can come between me and food — my love, my obsession, my four square meals and seven snacks per day.

Last week, after explaining to a friend that, no, I could not come out to ride horses because I was violently ill, she consoled me by saying that she always thinks of the positive side of being violently ill: losing weight.

First of all, I would just like to get this thought out of the way: If any of you out there in Readerville think the way my friend does, don't say so out loud. It just gives people the impression you lick door knobs and stair railings in public places every time you feel the need to purge a few pounds. People don't like to imagine those things ... and by people, I mean me.

Second of all, if you think anything positive about being violently ill, you should remember this: The devil himself fools people into thinking wrongdoing is a good thing also. Just saying. Evil is tricky stuff, as is stomach flu.

I came home from work at noon, refused lunch and opted for a nap instead. Not that I couldn't stand to skip a meal or two and not that I don't love sleeping, but food is my first love, cherished above all other things.

I love it wholeheartedly, and without prejudice, whether it's a simple piece of wholewheat toast with butter and a side of fruit, or a deep-fried convenience store burrito slathered in cheap hot sauce, or a tender chateau briand with sautéed mushrooms, or ramen noodles, or ... what were we talking about?

Yes, I love food, but I refused lunch that day — a red flag of health danger if ever there was one. I did finally eat half of a sandwich later because I couldn't tell if I was nauseous from illness or hunger. And then I found out it wasn't hunger.

Not only did my gastro-intestinal tract reject the half of sandwich, but it also rejected everything I'd eaten for the previous three to four weeks at least.

In romance-speak that's like saying, "I love you, but I need space. No, not only do I not love you, but I hate you. Plus, I totally regret having wasted the last three years with you."

And then I laid on the bed groaning all night. My guts were heartsick over the breakup. I wondered in the dark of that long night if my rejected food felt the same way.

What kind of sick-minded virus would come between a hefty chick and her beloved food like that? An evil one, I tell you. Stomach flu is cruel, inhuman. Sure, I had water and Gatorade to sip, but I longed for my food, my sustenance, my precious.

Never fear, though. Evil stomach flu could not keep us apart.

Food and I are working on getting back together. It will be a long reconciliation process. A week later, I still can only eat about 1/3 of my normal portion size, snacks are almost unheard of. My stomach will not be going on a date with the first fair food of the summer, but we are all hoping that the relationship will be back on track for next week's fair.

I have faith that true love of food can vanquish any evil flu bug.