In fact, now that I think about it, this is quite enough for first effort: I’m tired…!
Good night, Posterity.
Help…! Adam trying new approach: devious, insidious, unexpected — fattening!
Also wonderfuclass="underline" Who would expect servant-raised-and-educated, musically gifted, apparently hedonistic, smooth-talking young stranger to be competent cook — no, cancel that — inspired master chef? Can’t imagine where he finds this incredible variety of makings — meats, fruit, vegetables, etc. All prepared with genuine magic touch…
(Manufacture same dishes myself; results merely adequate. But let Adam walk through kitchen, stop at stove, sniff pots’ contents, somehow Something. Happens — something wonderful!)
And in present condition, trying to regain lost tissue, cannot begin to take objective view of offerings: Anything failing to bite me first goes to stoke fires (Adam has already used expression “feeding frenzy” [smiled when said it, but doubt really kidding]). In short, am ravenous; appetite running amok; not responsible for actions in presence of food — any food. But especially this food…!
Example, breakfast today: two homemade whole-wheat pancakes, dripping with real butter, drowned in clover honey; delicate two-egg/ham-cheese-mushroom omelet; four-ounce filet, crisp outside, medium-rare inside; hash-brown potatoes; ten-ounce orange juice, 16-ounce milk; megavitamin/mineral pills; huge bowl of fresh strawberries! (Where could he possibly have found fresh strawberries…?)
Midmorning snack: half dozen hot, fresh blueberry muffins with thick pat of butter melted into each; big bowl of chocolate mint ice cream dripping with thick homemade hot fudge topping, sprinkled with nuts, buried under blanket of real whipped cream, capped with cherry; 16-ounce glass of homemade eggnog.
Lunch: large green salad covered with Adam’s own bleu cheese dressing; two-inch-thick slice of rare standing-rib roast smothered in mushrooms, gravy; baked potato (skin crisped, suitable for crunching like cookie; insides removed, cream whipped, butter blended, then replaced); tender cauliflower swimming in exquisite cheese sauce; side dish of applesauce; fresh hot rolls; another 16-ounce glass of milk. Plus dessert: incredible something combining best features of angel food cake (laced with chocolate chips), vanilla pudding, covered with (so help me) miniature hot toasted marshmallows.
Midafternoon snack: two slices of completely egg-and-milk-saturated French toast, sprinkled with cinnamon, powdered sugar, liberally paved with butter pats, and dripping with maple syrup; colossal chocolate milkshake.
Whew…! Isn’t time for dinner yet; don’t know what’s planned. But doesn’t matter; merely reviewing day’s menu thus far imparts great sense of confidence for future (plus makes me hungry again): Know full well that whatever may be, will be work of sheerest culinary artistry. (Will taste good, too…!)
Obviously this is tough life: Gradually wake somewhere around midmorning to aromas wafting up from kitchen as Adam prepares breakfast. Ring to let him know am back among living.
Somehow puts preparations on Hold. Appears instantly in room to help me from bed (can walk myself, but balance not reliable yet; still awfully weak) to potty for morning dump. Thence into tub (which previously filled without waking me); turns on Jacuzzis, administers massage to get blood flowing again. Bathes me gently yet efficiently; impersonally, without “taking liberties” (either teasingly and/or in earnest), despite intimate contact necessarily involved (and notwithstanding undisguised libidinous ambitions). Assists me from tub, dries me with huge, thick, bath-sheet towels; dresses me to extent required by day’s schedule (usually robe, slippers); dries, combs hair. Then, steadied by his arm, I walk to kitchen, where he completes breakfast, somehow picking up preparations where left off without even hint of difficulty.
After breakfast, again leaning on shoulder, I take quarter-mile hike (once around house, inside — no kidding!) for exercise; then lounge in library, reading while Adam practices piano. (In times past people world over paid money to hear poorer keyboard work than I get daily as private Muzak while enjoying fruits of most impressive book collection have ever seen.)
Adam wakes me when time to return to kitchen for midmorning snack (invariably fall asleep on couch); then back to library for more music, reading (as long as eyes stay open).
And then time for lunch. Afterward we repeat therapeutic hike; following which I nap until afternoon snack-time. Generally manage to remain awake thereafter, reading, until dinner.
After dinner Adam gets serious: Plays the Good Stuff; each work straight through rather than, as in practice, taking run after run at trouble spots. Makes it count. For that I stay awake. Don’t even read.
Evening finally winds up with modest bedtime smackrel (no more than 1,500 calories or thereabouts); and so to bed, perchance to dream (generally of food).
Despite nursing schedule, Adam finds time to keep himself clean, groomed; kitchen spotless; do laundry; as well as housecleaning (dusting, carpets, etc.) for those areas of house I get to see; and still is as conscientious about taking care of Terry as would be myself if able.
Finally, manages — somehow! — to find, prepare that astonishing variety of wonderful food! (Where could he have found those strawberries…?)
And throughout remains uniformly considerate, optimistic “… cheerful, thrifty, brave, clean…” etc. Having person like that around could get habit-forming. (Probably what he’s up to — auditioning [would make some lucky woman terrific househusband]).
Only, if continue to let him wait on me hand and foot — never mind feeding me like this — in six months will be too fat to move. (Suppose that’s what he’s up to…? Perhaps likes his women ample?)
If so, have long way to go. Only week since coma ended. Been eating, sleeping with remarkable devotion to duty ever since; and condition improving, true — color back to normal, no longer dehydrated, metabolic balance restored — but haven’t begun to gain weight; still pretty puny example of Womanhood in Flower. If had any competition, doubt Adam would give me second glance. No, strike that; would look, but sympathetically: awfully nice person — for adolescent male, of course.
And is adolescent male, let’s not forget. Far from perfect. (I mean — anyone who can be that cheerful in morning…!)
Further, he… No, can’t go on. Quote from breakfast this morning (breakfast, mind you) quite damning enough:
“… was the loneliest summer of my life,” he mused pensively. “Mother was seized by this notion that I should learn something resembling discipline involving areas beyond music. She decided that I should work mornings in her office. She reasoned, I suppose, that this would force me to get up early, which in itself would be Good For Me. Besides, discovering what it meant to work in a proper work setting, earning a minimum wage, would ‘be good for your perspective.’ That’s what she said — I thought my perspective was fine just as it was.
“So I became an office boy. Not just an office boy: the junior office boy — the lowest of the low. I was given responsibility for sorting, storing, and checking in and out the innumerable little IBM type-balls, or elements, of the various sizes and fonts that Mother used in her official correspondence — it was a big office and there was a bunch of them.
“The work was boring and seemed without real value. However, I determined to put the best possible face on the situation and went about my duties cheerfully, earnestly, and doing my best to be nice to everyone.”