Big Beautiful Dreamer
ridiculously contented
~BHM, Feasting, Stuffing - a little homily to the immediate realities of overindulgence
Liam smiled and waved at Mrs. Morgan and her two youngest children from across the street. “Don’t work too hard, Father!”
It was something of a myth, Liam thought, that priests were overworked and undercared-for. True, they received no salary, and the days were long, but the work was uniquely fulfilling, and when he sank wearily to his knees at night, it was with gratitude. Moreover, his quarters were comfortable enough without being unnecessarily plush, and Mrs. Killeen fed the fathers well, if humbly, on good local meat and produce. Moreover, twice a year, didn’t she give the fathers an incomparably lavish feast to celebrate Easter and Christmas – and the end of their busiest times of the year.
Liam quickened his steps. It was Holy Saturday, and he wanted to get back from the hospital visits in time to help Father Coakley and Father Dougherty hear confessions. Father Gerroy wasn’t allowed to hear confessions any more since the time pious old Meg McClarty found he’d snored through her time in the box. As he passed the bakery and inhaled the good smell of hot cross buns, his stomach, empty since Maundy Thursday, growled loudly. “Hush now,” he murmured. “Won’t you be fasting until sunrise.”
The next day, Mass was celebrated at sunrise and again at 10:00, the church packed, sun streaming through the windows, bright new clothes everywhere, the fasting and sacrifice of Lent ended with the announcement, “He is risen!”
After the last hand was shaken and the last Easter greeting exchanged on the church steps, the fathers crossed in a group to the rectory, all four of them taking off their collars as they went. Thanks to the Easter Vigil, they’d been up all night and hadn’t had a meal in two days. At the rectory, they went their separate ways to nap. The Easter feast, they knew, was being prepared.
And a feast it was. Tacitly, all practices of restraint were off and for one day no one worried about the sin of gluttony. The tradition of breaking a fast with a feast was older than the Hebrews and reminded those feasting that in the Christian tradition, hope always transcended waiting and fear and strengthened doubt.
Father Dougherty began with a toast. “To the risen Son!” “To the Son,” the other priests echoed, and began passing the serving bowls. Like the others, Liam heaped his plate high, his appetite sharpened by the good food and the deep hunger of having fasted. Roast goose, gravy, turnips, carrots, brown bread, rice pilaf, plum compote, spinach, roast potatoes. Scalloped potatoes, peas in butter, Scottish eggs, pears in port sauce, hot, flaky rolls.
Liam took a deep breath and made a brief, exploratory survey of his plate before deciding on a plan of attack. He started at the carrots and moved round to the roast potatoes, on to the Scottish eggs. He knew he should slow down, but it was all too good to, especially after the fasting. He did pause to loosen his belt a notch before carrying on. After a while, letting it out a second notch seemed only the wise thing to do. As did unbuttoning his pants altogether, later in the meal, which seemed to have no end to it.
Liam could see that the other priests were attacking the feast with equal zeal. Father Gerroy was starting to nod off between courses, Father Coakley’s face was far too red for such a young man, and father Dougherty kept pressing his hand to his belly as if to disprove its fullness. Proof or no proof, Liam had faith that his own belly was now achingly swollen and would soon be too stuffed to hold another bite. Even without looking, he could feel his gut bulging, straining against the cloth of his shirt and edging over his belt, which, come to think of it, needed loosening again. That was the last notch, heaven knew what the next step would be.
Full as he was, the food was so good he savored just one more bite … and one more bite … and one more bite. He became at least as aware of his gut as he was of the good food. His belly was weighed down with the amount he had already eaten, sagging heavily down and round the sides. Closing his eyes as he took a deep swallow of lemonade, he imagined his stomach straining at the sides, about to burst, food packed in tight to every inch of it. With effort he suppressed a belch. Slowly he cleaned his plate again without even realizing it, feeling his gut bulge with every delicious bite.
He paused to stretch, catching Father Coakley’s eye as his colleague did the same. As he stretched, pushing his hugely distended abdomen outward, he felt its tightness. The skin was pulled taut against the bloated expanse of his belly, exacerbating the soreness he felt.
Mrs. Killeen brought in plum pudding with hard sauce and spooned a generous slice onto each priest’s plate once the brandy flames died. She poured out tea. Nearly groaning with relief, Liam added a goodly dollop of milk and took a swallow, savoring the sensation of the hot liquid coursing down his throat and coating the stomach full of good food. Ahhhh. Hastily he stifled another belch, then began on the plum pudding. Mrs. Killeen had given him a serving the size of Mount Mullaughcleevaun. The first bite melted in his mouth, so tasty that he wanted his mouth filled with the taste again and again.
Before he knew it, the plate and teacup were empty and his stomach was achingly full. He glanced around. The other fathers were pushing back their chairs as well, four visibly bloated tummies in black clericals surrounding the table after an Easter feast. Liam made to stand, then caught himself on the edge of the table. His groaningly stuffed belly sloshed heavily, and his center of gravity had shifted, his stomach pulling him down.
It hurt to stand up, hurt so much he couldn’t force himself to do it and remained in a half-crouch. Awkwardly, he lumbered off, following Father Coakley to the stairs, where both dragged themselves with agonizing slowness up to the shared study. There, the fell with relief into chairs, moaning in unison as their overcrowded bellies churned and sloshed with the movement. Before he sat, however, Liam finally took off his belt altogether, and unashamedly undid the remaining buttons of his trousers. Father Coakley had done the same.
Liam began to draw a deep breath, wanting to sigh in relief, but he was far too stuffed and hiccupped instead.
“(Hic!) A … grand ... feast,” he puffed.
Father Coakley, given name John, nodded dopily. “Aye … (hic!) a grand … feast,” he agreed thickly, tipsy with the feast, drunk with gluttony.
Liam unthinkingly groaned and pressed a hand to his solid belly, hard as a rock and astonishingly bloated. “Ate (hic!) t’much,” he mumbled, thinking what an understatement that was.
John Coakley belched. “Given … myself … a stomach ache,” he admitted. He rubbed his engorged gut. He was leaning back in his chair, and his swollen belly bulged into the air. He thumped it, producing a hollow thud that made both men start to laugh, then moan in unison. They were so stuffed to bursting that laughing hurt.
Liam’s eyelids were fluttering. He had eaten so much that he was nearly asleep, yet the discomfort of his overloaded stomach was making it impossible to fall asleep. From the looks of things, his colleague was in the same boat.
“Eyes too big for your stomach,” Mam used to say when he’d overeaten Christmas dinner. He understood in the abstract what it meant, but as he stroked his ballooning gut, he thought that not much at the moment could be bigger than his stomach. It was solid, rock-hard, immobile. He could feel it churn and grumble, feel the food pressing heavily against his insides, oozing into every crevice, his stomach stretched beyond capacity.
He felt the churning increase in intensity. Something surged from deep in his bloated gut and he felt a sour taste deep in the back of his throat. He had only time to think, “Dear God,” before he felt his lips part. “Urrrrrrrrruppppp.” The largest belch he’d ever produced in his life burst out, startling John into wakefulness.
“All right there, Liam?” he murmured, blinking.
Liam had started to sigh in relief, but he was too full to draw breath, really, so he panted instead.
“Aye,” he managed. “A little afterword (urrp) to the meal.” He pressed a hand to his gut again, wanting to soothe the beast as it grumbled its way back into relatively quiet digestion.
John belched himself, much less spectacularly but still impressively. “Oh … ahh … ooohhh … need a … nap.”
“Mmm.” Liam really didn’t want to talk any more. Every time he did, it made his whole midsection vibrate, exacerbating his discomfort. Holy Mother, was he full.
Silence descended on the study as the afternoon deepened. Massaging their distended bellies, and with an occasional groan, Liam and John gradually drifted into sleep.
Bless Me, Father, on Easter
by Big Beautiful Dreamer
[This is the second story in the Father Liam series. For the prior story click here.]
by Big Beautiful Dreamer
[This is the second story in the Father Liam series. For the prior story click here.]
Liam smiled and waved at Mrs. Morgan and her two youngest children from across the street. “Don’t work too hard, Father!”
It was something of a myth, Liam thought, that priests were overworked and undercared-for. True, they received no salary, and the days were long, but the work was uniquely fulfilling, and when he sank wearily to his knees at night, it was with gratitude. Moreover, his quarters were comfortable enough without being unnecessarily plush, and Mrs. Killeen fed the fathers well, if humbly, on good local meat and produce. Moreover, twice a year, didn’t she give the fathers an incomparably lavish feast to celebrate Easter and Christmas – and the end of their busiest times of the year.
Liam quickened his steps. It was Holy Saturday, and he wanted to get back from the hospital visits in time to help Father Coakley and Father Dougherty hear confessions. Father Gerroy wasn’t allowed to hear confessions any more since the time pious old Meg McClarty found he’d snored through her time in the box. As he passed the bakery and inhaled the good smell of hot cross buns, his stomach, empty since Maundy Thursday, growled loudly. “Hush now,” he murmured. “Won’t you be fasting until sunrise.”
The next day, Mass was celebrated at sunrise and again at 10:00, the church packed, sun streaming through the windows, bright new clothes everywhere, the fasting and sacrifice of Lent ended with the announcement, “He is risen!”
After the last hand was shaken and the last Easter greeting exchanged on the church steps, the fathers crossed in a group to the rectory, all four of them taking off their collars as they went. Thanks to the Easter Vigil, they’d been up all night and hadn’t had a meal in two days. At the rectory, they went their separate ways to nap. The Easter feast, they knew, was being prepared.
And a feast it was. Tacitly, all practices of restraint were off and for one day no one worried about the sin of gluttony. The tradition of breaking a fast with a feast was older than the Hebrews and reminded those feasting that in the Christian tradition, hope always transcended waiting and fear and strengthened doubt.
Father Dougherty began with a toast. “To the risen Son!” “To the Son,” the other priests echoed, and began passing the serving bowls. Like the others, Liam heaped his plate high, his appetite sharpened by the good food and the deep hunger of having fasted. Roast goose, gravy, turnips, carrots, brown bread, rice pilaf, plum compote, spinach, roast potatoes. Scalloped potatoes, peas in butter, Scottish eggs, pears in port sauce, hot, flaky rolls.
Liam took a deep breath and made a brief, exploratory survey of his plate before deciding on a plan of attack. He started at the carrots and moved round to the roast potatoes, on to the Scottish eggs. He knew he should slow down, but it was all too good to, especially after the fasting. He did pause to loosen his belt a notch before carrying on. After a while, letting it out a second notch seemed only the wise thing to do. As did unbuttoning his pants altogether, later in the meal, which seemed to have no end to it.
Liam could see that the other priests were attacking the feast with equal zeal. Father Gerroy was starting to nod off between courses, Father Coakley’s face was far too red for such a young man, and father Dougherty kept pressing his hand to his belly as if to disprove its fullness. Proof or no proof, Liam had faith that his own belly was now achingly swollen and would soon be too stuffed to hold another bite. Even without looking, he could feel his gut bulging, straining against the cloth of his shirt and edging over his belt, which, come to think of it, needed loosening again. That was the last notch, heaven knew what the next step would be.
Full as he was, the food was so good he savored just one more bite … and one more bite … and one more bite. He became at least as aware of his gut as he was of the good food. His belly was weighed down with the amount he had already eaten, sagging heavily down and round the sides. Closing his eyes as he took a deep swallow of lemonade, he imagined his stomach straining at the sides, about to burst, food packed in tight to every inch of it. With effort he suppressed a belch. Slowly he cleaned his plate again without even realizing it, feeling his gut bulge with every delicious bite.
He paused to stretch, catching Father Coakley’s eye as his colleague did the same. As he stretched, pushing his hugely distended abdomen outward, he felt its tightness. The skin was pulled taut against the bloated expanse of his belly, exacerbating the soreness he felt.
Mrs. Killeen brought in plum pudding with hard sauce and spooned a generous slice onto each priest’s plate once the brandy flames died. She poured out tea. Nearly groaning with relief, Liam added a goodly dollop of milk and took a swallow, savoring the sensation of the hot liquid coursing down his throat and coating the stomach full of good food. Ahhhh. Hastily he stifled another belch, then began on the plum pudding. Mrs. Killeen had given him a serving the size of Mount Mullaughcleevaun. The first bite melted in his mouth, so tasty that he wanted his mouth filled with the taste again and again.
Before he knew it, the plate and teacup were empty and his stomach was achingly full. He glanced around. The other fathers were pushing back their chairs as well, four visibly bloated tummies in black clericals surrounding the table after an Easter feast. Liam made to stand, then caught himself on the edge of the table. His groaningly stuffed belly sloshed heavily, and his center of gravity had shifted, his stomach pulling him down.
It hurt to stand up, hurt so much he couldn’t force himself to do it and remained in a half-crouch. Awkwardly, he lumbered off, following Father Coakley to the stairs, where both dragged themselves with agonizing slowness up to the shared study. There, the fell with relief into chairs, moaning in unison as their overcrowded bellies churned and sloshed with the movement. Before he sat, however, Liam finally took off his belt altogether, and unashamedly undid the remaining buttons of his trousers. Father Coakley had done the same.
Liam began to draw a deep breath, wanting to sigh in relief, but he was far too stuffed and hiccupped instead.
“(Hic!) A … grand ... feast,” he puffed.
Father Coakley, given name John, nodded dopily. “Aye … (hic!) a grand … feast,” he agreed thickly, tipsy with the feast, drunk with gluttony.
Liam unthinkingly groaned and pressed a hand to his solid belly, hard as a rock and astonishingly bloated. “Ate (hic!) t’much,” he mumbled, thinking what an understatement that was.
John Coakley belched. “Given … myself … a stomach ache,” he admitted. He rubbed his engorged gut. He was leaning back in his chair, and his swollen belly bulged into the air. He thumped it, producing a hollow thud that made both men start to laugh, then moan in unison. They were so stuffed to bursting that laughing hurt.
Liam’s eyelids were fluttering. He had eaten so much that he was nearly asleep, yet the discomfort of his overloaded stomach was making it impossible to fall asleep. From the looks of things, his colleague was in the same boat.
“Eyes too big for your stomach,” Mam used to say when he’d overeaten Christmas dinner. He understood in the abstract what it meant, but as he stroked his ballooning gut, he thought that not much at the moment could be bigger than his stomach. It was solid, rock-hard, immobile. He could feel it churn and grumble, feel the food pressing heavily against his insides, oozing into every crevice, his stomach stretched beyond capacity.
He felt the churning increase in intensity. Something surged from deep in his bloated gut and he felt a sour taste deep in the back of his throat. He had only time to think, “Dear God,” before he felt his lips part. “Urrrrrrrrruppppp.” The largest belch he’d ever produced in his life burst out, startling John into wakefulness.
“All right there, Liam?” he murmured, blinking.
Liam had started to sigh in relief, but he was too full to draw breath, really, so he panted instead.
“Aye,” he managed. “A little afterword (urrp) to the meal.” He pressed a hand to his gut again, wanting to soothe the beast as it grumbled its way back into relatively quiet digestion.
John belched himself, much less spectacularly but still impressively. “Oh … ahh … ooohhh … need a … nap.”
“Mmm.” Liam really didn’t want to talk any more. Every time he did, it made his whole midsection vibrate, exacerbating his discomfort. Holy Mother, was he full.
Silence descended on the study as the afternoon deepened. Massaging their distended bellies, and with an occasional groan, Liam and John gradually drifted into sleep.
