I made fajitas yesterday, in part because it's one of Chris' favorite meals of all time, and also because it sounded like the perfect opportunity to use up some homemade psuedo-refried beans that had been in the fridge for a bit. (Black beans, salsa, spices, blender. Yum.)
I heated up the batch in the microwave and put a generous spoonful on my plate. I took a bite, swallowed, and did it again. And then I stopped. There was something not quite right about them.
I sniffed the bowl. I looked at Chris. I sniffed the bowl again and with a sigh, scooped out the beans into the trashcan.
"What's up?" Chris asked.
I shook my head. "I just don't trust them."
Rightfully so, too. I went to bed with a stomach ache and an hour later was up again. While I could give you details so TMI that they'd make a Catholic cross herself, I'll just leave it at this - my insides really, really wanted to be my outsides. All. Night. Long.
But this blog post is not about how nasty I've felt since 10pm yesterday. The impact that food poisoning has on one's day pales in comparison to my super-hero husband, who got up and took care of me without having to be asked.
He held me as I gave him the full details on my night, poor guy. He talked me into trying to drink a little water. He went to the store to get Gatorade for me, and even thought to ask what flavor I wanted. He sympathetically endured the continued sounds of my heaving. He promised to come home early from school, and probably would have stayed with me all day if he hadn't already rescheduled his research meeting twice. He even dragged the couch across the apartment so I could lay down nearer to the bathroom and be in the same room with him.
He's so often grateful for how well I take care of him, making dinner, keeping the apartment tidy, 101 random errands. That's sweet of him, but puh-lease:
I totally married up.