Alas, our Best of RG series was cut short because I had to go to the hospital again. The last post was going to be romantic, about artichokes—you can find it by googling this blog and “anginares,” and you’ll be spared the last Joanie-loves-Chachi shtick.

But I’m out of the joint, and apparently everything will be better than ever. If you have no idea what I’m talking about, and haven’t been following the details on Peter’s obsessive blog re: my health, and you’re curious, and you’re not a crazy stalker person, then email me, and I will get you up to date.

In the hospital, one leads a very rudimentary life. One’s expectations and aspirations become noticeably curtailed: I made it to the bathroom all by myself! Good job!

One’s palate also gets hella fucked up.

I had surgery at 7 in the morning. By the afternoon, I’d come around and the nurses pulled out the breathing tube. Then my mother was able to give me eensy doses of water, via a little green sponge on a stick. After a few more hours, I was allowed actual small chunks of ice.

That water was so simple, delicious, cold, nourishing—all I had to do was lie in bed and fantasize about the time when I would be able to drink a whole glass of it. Anyone who, when they’re high on ecstasy, feels vaguely like an idiot for saying, “This is the best water ever!”, don’t—it is the best water ever, and you’re getting to enjoy it without all the rigamarole of anesthesia, a heart-lung machine, and a million tubes sticking out of you.

Usually I could do a little cycle of sponge-sucking and ice-cube-savoring a couple of times before I’d need more pain meds and get knocked out again. I got into a very satisfying OCD rhythm with the sponge (three thorough sucks) and the ice cubes (one small one). I was a giant, incompetent hamster. I can only imagine how delightful it would’ve been if it were fizzy.

Then Peter came along and rubbed a bit of fruit in my mouth. It was terrifying yet fascinating. Tangy, warm, and so violently acidic that I was sure the nurses would yank it away as something toxic. It was also weirdly salty. Later, Peter told me it was a blood orange. I never would’ve imagined blood oranges actually tasting bloody.

Two days after the surgery, I was eating solid foods again, but wisely assigned the “bland” diet. Cardboard turkey. Paste potatoes. Packing-foam lettuce. Fine by me. When I got around to “regular” diet, though, I was already remembering what I was missing, though I didn’t have a huge appetite.

Last night I got home and ate a salad with a merciless dressing of anchovy and lemon juice. Burned the hospital food right off, and started fresh.