Sir Charles in postprandial lethargy

This morning I woke up hungry. That is not an entirely unique experience for me but My appetite had been without vigor since I contracted a nasty, evil, heartless cold. It squashed every bit of hunger from me, a task which must have required Herculean effort. I love to eat. The cook is on Holiday in the south of France, the butler, gardener and handyman have no culinary skills, so it was left to me  to create a festive, albeit pedestrian, morning temptation for my rapacious palate.

I inventoried the refrigerator, ready and frozen sections. Checked the pantry, herb garden and baked good repository. What I found was but a peasants view of hard bread and molded cheese but that would have to make do. To the chicken coop for eggs, the milk cow and dairymen for milk, butter, cheese and yogurt. Apparently, I would have to do the rest.

I prepared potatoes for hash browns and visited the smoke house for sausage while walking to the chicken coops for eggs. With the love and skill of a mother nursing her child I prepared the sausage, eggs and hash browns, placed them gently on the carefully warmed stoneware plate and repaired to the formal dining room to await delivery of the fresh squeezed orange juice, turned out the butler could do something besides iron the New York Times.

Hands full with visions of ingesting food for a king I tripped on the rug and lost control of it all. It tumbled tragically to its end  - upside down into a Jackson Pollock semi sculpture with a delicious aroma but tortuous visage. Heartbroken I screamed a single word. Then I looked at Charley whom I could swear was smiling. He needed no more invitation so walked slowly, almost regally to his prize.

His gratitude was so obvious and so intense that I somehow found my self grateful to be a part of it.