Refreshed

This one time, in Southern France, at a culinary retreat that prides itself on fresh, thoughtfully prepared cooking, I threw up at the dinner table.


It was about 8PM, but it felt like 2AM. I was so dirty from the long day's sweat-rest-cool pattern of farm work that I somehow felt, though didn't smell, clean; I skipped a shower in favor of helping with dinner because, as I assured myself, everyone smelled like compost (right? Larissa, you smell like compost too, right?), and because, dammit, I came to a French farm to learn about food, not about cleanliness.


So fine, I didn't smell my best. But the turkey -- de-boned, chopped, seasoned, sauteed, boiled, seasoned again -- took over my odor (some coriander in the pot, some over my shoulder), and the wine, just one glass of "the nice red", took my tired, aching body and slapped it. I felt good.

Probably too good. In fact, we were all feeling good. And as we ate and drank, Stephanie, Kate's younger, should-be-a-stand-up-comedian sister, had us all (Larissa, myself, and long-term helpers Erika and Chris) laughing and laughing and laughing. The collective release -- our first in a few days of hard labor that left little time to sit back and enjoy each other's company -- was tangible, edible, drinkable. The wine was long finished, as was the turkey chili, but Stephanie, Albert Einstein hair and all, kept going.

I won't try to re-create her story that set us off. If I heard the story of lima beans stuck up her nose in my current state (that of being rested and sober), I don't think I'd find it as funny. But last night, as she wrapped up her childhood mishap, I lost it. Everything was just funny at that point. I laughed -- head back, hands clutching the laugh-induced cramp on my left side -- for what seemed like ten minutes but was probably just one.

As I gasped for air and tried to control myself, something (free-range?) caught in my throat and, as a result, I coughed up some chili dribble which slid down my chin and onto the table. This led to another round of delirious laughter for everyone, which led to a laugh/swallow of dribble that went down the wrong way, which led to choking and violent coughing (at which point everyone stopped laughing and threw their concern my way), and finally, some throw up in my napkin. Looking down, I knew the next second was crucial. "Fight it!" I thought. "You're in France, eating amazing food. You've made friends, and you're finally having a good time! Don't barf!" And then ("oh, you bastard") I got a whiff of my mess and stood up to run to the bathroom, only to get to the end of the table before throwing up what seemed like two day's worth of food onto the 18th century kitchen floor.

In such a ridiculous situation -- dirty from work, tired from work, hurting from laughter, standing over my vomit -- the only reaction I could think of was to look up and smile at Larissa, and at these new friends, as we all wondered aloud if that just happened or not. We confirmed that it did, and the third bout of delusional laughter erupted and carried into the night.

The following day, I don't know what it was, maybe I felt lighter in some respect, but the farm work, same deal of long, hard hours, did not seem tough at all.