This past weekend I was reminded there is something far worse than
witnessing a sick loved one who’s unable to eat—witnessing
myself, laid up with a painful kidney infection, unable to muster even
a pathetic semblance of an appetite. (Tip: Drinking lots of water for a
few days will not cure a UTI; it will just give bacteria time to crawl
further up into your body.) For three days, I was only able to lie on
the couch, watch football, sweat profusely, and drift in and out of
consciousness.
Seeking nourishment beyond water, I left the house briefly on
Saturday night to join one of my best friends (and favorite Jews) for
dinner at Jamjuree to break his Yom Kippur fast. As he devoured
chicken satay and a sizzling shrimp dish and declared, “I am normal
again!” I sipped green tea and tried not to pass out. It was not the
nourishment I was looking for, but the company of an old friend around
whom I could shiver and be only a shadow of my normal self. It was
exactly the comfort I needed at the moment.
On Sunday, I invoked the help of a higher power—Fergus
Henderson, patron saint of variety meats and charmingly written
cookbooks. In the recipe for Fennel, Butter Bean, Ox Tongue, and Green
Sauce, from his newest book, Beyond Nose to Tail, I found the
most beautiful sentence, which I’ve been offering up as a daily prayer
for a fully restored appetite: “Now slice as much tongue as you feel
appropriate (keep the rest for sandwiches) into thin little angel’s
wings.” Amen. 
