The Guardian newspaper included an article yesterday that was music to my mother’s ears. It was a repetition of my grandmother’s incessant nagging for me to eat, especially the likes of chicken soup, gefilte fish and strudel. The article included the line,“Can anyone make better chicken soup than a Jewish mother, and can a good one really cure colds and soothe all ills?”
Since yesterday, I have been forced onto a light soup and salad diet in anticipation of the upcoming event. Of course, the minute I am denied all of my guilty culinary pleasures, suddenly after weeks of minimal consumption, I acquire an appetite and desire a meal of substance. I prefer to regard the “upcoming event”, which I am dieting for, as the fitting of my back corset rather than the surgery. If one has to wear a medical back corset, I am of the opinion that it will be aesthetically less ghastly in a petite size. There has been many a speculation as to of what this back corset will comprise and its effect on my semblance. Will I be transported in the tardis, alongside David Tennant, into a period drama where I will attain a minuscule waist, with the minor inconvenience of an inability to breathe, or will I mimic Frankenstein?
In accordance with doctor’s orders, my renowned grandmother’s orders and the Guardian’s suggestion, tonight I will be slowly sipping chicken soup. Between the powerful combination of surgery and soup, my shuffle will have no choice but to switch into a stroll.