At exactly the same time today, Pierre’s and my dormant guts woke, like some kind of intestinal kismet. A couple connected by their compatible bowels. The Thanksgiving dinner had probably made us sick. Shall I blame the strange undercooked stuffing hybrid? Or was it the spooky fact that the plate arrived lukewarm then cooled significantly?
Falling sick from food from a Western style restaurant is ironic, since I drank the water and made other risky food choices while in rural Coorg last weekend. I’m relieved to know I can eat the slimy flesh from the inside of green coconuts, scraping bits out with a chunk of the husk and using my fingers to stuff it into my gullet without incident. I’d rather eat coconut flesh on the side of a dusty street than eat turkey gravy any day. 