So, you got Cyclospora.

this article offers zero advice

Yes, I got the parasite. The one that ravages your body and leaves you entirely depleted, turning towards God. I actually got that parasite and salmonella at the same time, as it now turns out. This would be the ideal time to make a joke about how I’ve always been a tastemaker and ahead of the curve, but, in reality, this situation has done nothing but humble me to my very core.

Don’t ask me where I got it; I don’t know, and I really do not want to. I only write this so that in the unpleasant instance you get it too, you feel less alone.

Yes, I shit myself.

I lost three weeks of my life to bed. I know I sent emails and texts and even wrote a Substack during that time, but it’s primarily a blur. I changed the sheets more times than I would have liked to, did many laundry loads, forced my dog to cuddle me, set up 2 apple cider vinegar traps for fruit flies, and watched countless films. I ate a little: mostly soups, rice, etc. I drank a lot of water with lemon juice. I was in a lot of pain.

As someone whose life is centered around eating, cooking, and prancing around… I did feel quite stripped of joy. It’s over now, so that doesn’t matter anymore, but it made me grateful for the simplest things… like walking one block without needing the bathroom.

The intense cramping is probably the worst part. Your entire stomach becomes consumed by sharp little pains. They don’t really go away. The brain fog too… I wish I could say I wrote my debut cookbook or solved one of life’s greatest issues in this time, but watching Love Island felt incredibly highbrow.

One thing I gained? A taste for sugar. I’ve always been a fries-for-dessert type, but parasites love sugar, and thus, so did I.

I made three clafoutis in this time. Yes, three. One recipe from Epicurious, one from Julia Child, and one from Serious Eats. I dare not tell you which was best.

It was the one from Serious Eats.

I had to throw away a pair of Schostal pajamas, and countless stringy things from Agent Provocateur. I’m sorry for the mental image that brings you, but it’s entirely necessary in telling this story.

Hard to accept the crown of Domestic Goddess when I’ve outed myself as someone who shits the bed (literally), but I’m nothing if not honest.

As Brasserie Lipp prints at the top of every menu:

NO SALAD AS A MEAL

x R