A Nasty Bout of the Breakfast Burrito
I'm having a hard time dealing with the fact that one of my favorite restaurants gave me the longest, gnarliest case of food-poisoning I've ever experienced.
My innocent, routine trip out to breakfast last Monday was meant to inspire a day of productivity and creative prowess. After a weekend of backpacking in the Jemez, I needed something to get my mind back into the swing of things. However, my aspirations for the day were sabotaged by a half-eaten breakfast burrito.
Highlights of my week spent at home included:
• Lying on the couch for hours upon hours drifting in and out of consciousness trying to think of anything but food.
• Staying wrapped up in a flannel blanket to keep my temperature high—the theory being the hotter environment kills pathogens more effectively—not my idea, but my boyfriend swore it would work.
• Rude bodily interruptions, forcing me to spend some quality time with my "comfort station."
It was a week from hell.
My biggest problem, though, is figuring out how to deal with this sudden rift between me and my favorite coffee shop. I can equate my feelings to the following hypothetical situation: After inviting a close friend of mine into my home, he accidentally drops a grenade. Detonating, it destroying nearly everything I own. Sure, it was an accident, but clearly I can never trust him again. I mean, honestly, why was he carrying a grenade? Metaphors aside, you can see my dilemma. Our relationship is definitely on the rocks right now.
On the bright side, I know I can continue to drink their coffee, which is easily the best in town. Considering I'm definitely not a coffee person—rarely finding pleasure in any cup o' joe—it's amazing how much I delight in their brew. Perhaps the foundation of our relationship is still intact.