What Husb. can do to his food is slurp it, spoon it. "No bite," said the surgeon, sounding like Jennie the Dog from Maurice Sendak's Higgledy Pigglety Pop!, the scene when Jennie is trying to get Baby to eat and Baby keeps shrieking "No Eat!"
Perhaps you remember the audio like I do from the early 70s, on a cassette player? If not, then this is for you and my sister, @dcster.
Like Jennie, I've been eating
I've made such a Victoriana of English desserts involving heavy whipping cream, gelatin and -- more cream. I've made fools, charlottes, cup custards in a water bath or -- as the French call it -- a "bain Marie," and rich vanilla pudding from Faith Durand's wonderful book Bakeless Sweets. I've eaten them all. Court-taster, that's me. Spoon holder.
It feels as though I am the male Toucan, a tropical bird who, when his lady bird is ready to lay her eggs finds a hollow tree for her, and he shuts her up inside it using daubs of mud until there is only a space for her to stick our her bill to be fed. Husb. is similarly house-bound.
I fly around in my gaudy spring wardrobe of mostly greens, shopping, Target-going, separating the recycling, picking up the children and delivering them cross-county to tap dance class and basketball, all the while in my mind devising some outrageous flan.