Jello alla Barfa

My mother caught the stomach virus from the bacteria clouds that she raises in her preschool and I thought that my soul was spared, having survived for one full week afterward feeling great—radiant, even.

Then came Thursday afternoon. The post-lunch era of my day began with a cramp that felt like my belly button was being twisted with a set of teeth, except from the inside. I thought that I put too much cabbage in my salad, but by the time work was over, I felt so awful that I could barely think about the turkey burgers we planned to make for dinner. I relayed this woe to my mother, who begrudgingly began sautéing celery and carrots for the base of the meat mixture. I yelled from the fetal position, “PLEASE. NO ONIONS.” She did not respond.

Minutes later, I shuffled into the kitchen to fetch a glass of water in hopes that it might be a magic elixir for my stomach. Mom took this as a sign that I was healed by Mother Teresa and passed off the spatula so that she could go order an Edible Arrangement. A task that is usually of epicurean catharsis turned into a form of domestic waterboarding. Ground turkey meat appeared barbaric. The smell of cooking oil simmering in the pan was no less appealing than the odor of a Porta Potty. I wanted to crawl into the microwave and spin on its tray to be zapped, like sweet potatoes, into a steaming blob of skin and flesh. (Hold the sour cream.) 

The resultant burgers were burnt, yet tasteless. Not even a healthy plop of ketchup could save them from being utterly despicable. Sriracha might have been a friend, but my insides took hold of  my subconscious and spat through clenched teeth, “Don’t. You. Dare.

The state of the union only went downhill from here. Sleep was broken when my body instructed me to promptly make my way to the bathroom floor, which I achieved in a misinformed interpretation of the vintage breakdancing move, 'The Worm'. I regressed to a sloppy version of myself from freshman year in college, seeking horizontal refuge on the tile with a cold rag as my only friend. In my head, I drafted an sick day email to my boss and co-workers that read like a eulogy.“Mia was 24 when she died at the foot of the porcelain bowl, surrounded by a toilet paper holster and her snoring dog. She is survived by her body pillow and a Twitter account of a female torso who invited her on several occasions to check out her ‘XXX webcam show XXX’.

All that I could muster to type was an embellished ‘SOS’. 

Breakfast was water. Lunch was a freezer waffle. Dinner was miso soup. The least that I could do was treat myself to a dessert while catching up on American Crime Story, and so I did.

Jello alla Barfa

Prep time: 1.3 seconds | Active time: 2.4 seconds | Serves one (If you can keep it down!!)

Get These Things

  • One cup of sugar-free Jello (orange or green flavor preferred)
  • One SoBe Life Water pop, halved

Then Do This

  1. Open Jello with dominant hand. Break up gently with a fork.
  2. Place one half of the ice pop on top.

Serve immediately with a spoon. Feel free to experiment with different varieties and flavors when your sister unwittingly decides to come home to la casa di contagion for the weekend and inevitably contracts the virus. 

Analyze & Discuss:

Are Marla and I eternally bonded due to our Bridesmaids moment of bodily expulsion?