Big Beautiful Dreamer
ridiculously contented
Gluttony, Both - Dining, Thanksgiving. A handful of expatriates celebrate the American holiday.
How I ended up with Brian in Prague at Thanksgiving is a long story with which I wont bore you. But of course nothing would do but for us to assemble our other expatriate buddies and do our best to approximate a Thanksgiving feast.
My mom, ever helpful, had mailed a huge box it must have cost her a fortune six cans of cranberry sauce, three big bags of stuffing mix, three cans of pumpkin, little zip bags full of the pinches of this and that spice for the pie, even cans of peas and corn. Shed even cooked and pureed the sweet potato and packaged it up in Tupperware (with a note: Return Tupperware!!). All we had to buy was a couple of huge geese, butter, celery, potatoes, whipped cream, pie crusts, and of course wine. Id e-mailed that we were expecting up to six people, and Mom, of course, had sent enough food for twelve. Still, we thought our guests might bring friends, so we set to and busied ourselves in a frenzy of preparation.
In the excitement, we entirely forgot that the flat had a tiny and inefficient refrigerator and there would be no way of storing any leftovers. (Ill get to that.)
The flat was small, but we were creative. Serving plates were set on the stove, on the open oven door, on the kitchen counter, the cranberry sauce was in the bathtub, and the sweet potatoes on a chair in the living room. The Brussels sprouts were on top of the TV and the homemade macaroni and cheese in the sink.
Eight of us, all Americans, all in Prague for different reasons, all half a world away from home on Thanksgiving. We drank and talked and ate and ate and ate to take the edge of our combined melancholy. Carbs have serotonin, right?
Afterward I moved the sweet potato dish to the floor and sank into the vomit-green Sixties-vintage chair, stretching my sock feet toward the noisy space heater.
Ooohhhh. I let out a long groan and fumbled my jeans open. They had fit just that morning, but now they were much too tight. I got the zipper down, and my swollen and seriously aching belly swelled into the opening. I pressed my hands gently and tentatively against my midsections gorged distention, rock-hard and tight as a drum. The skin over my abdomen pulled and tugged at my sides and my overloaded stomach, packed to the brim and beyond, churned and knocked and groaned like an ancient washing machine pulled out of balance by too many pounds of rich food.
The butter-laden stuffing, the thick gravy, the sweet density of the sweet potatoes, the garlic and almonds and assorted additions to the vegetable dishes, the dill and whole milk in the potatoes, the pure sugary slickness of the cranberry sauce, all stirred well with many glasses of wine: I felt laden, heavy and dopey with engorgement. I belched once, then twice, finishing with a loud hiccup that really made me fear that my bloated and stretched belly might pop under the strain.
Brian sprawled on the floor, propped against the scrungy sofa, a pillow behind his head. His jeans were also undone, and the edge of his T shirt, pulled too snugly across his swollen belly, didnt quite cover the ballooning protrusion of fullness. A pale crescent moon of tautly distended abdomen peeped. His eyes at half mast, lids fluttering in repletion, he rested his hands on his own undoubtedly aching gut.
Joe and Evelyn, Lily, Tina, Erik, and Miles our other expats were similarly laid out in various states of protrusion. Lily was normally model-thin, but shed indulged herself hedonistically today, and her normally concave tummy swelled roundly out beneath her think pink sweater. Her size 0 jeans were unbuttoned and I could see her navel crowning a tight mound of full belly.
Joe and Evelyn, newly married, were reveling in the fact that Evelyn had conceived on their recent honeymoon in Vienna. Evelyn had proclaimed herself starved for everything and had enthusiastically plowed through three or four heaping platefuls. Joe had laughingly matched her intake, and now they were resting in the bedroom, no doubt with jeans undone and bellies swollen as if to provide a preview of what Evelyns belly might look like by summer.
Erik was one of those scrawny brainy types, lonelier than the rest of us, I think. Hed eaten a decent amount, but hadnt drunk much and hadnt stuffed himself. He was idly finishing off the cranberry sauce and gazing out the window, not saying much. After a while, he got up abruptly and headed into the kitchen, silently volunteering himself for kitchen duty.
Miles, on the other hand, was an easygoing, enthusiastic quasi-Socialist, reveling in pursuing his graduate degree in a formerly communist country. He approached virtually everything in life with the same dive in! Why not! attitude, and that included food. He loved every cuisine hed ever encountered and had an adventurous palate. He had enthusiastically done some serious damage to the second goose all by himself and now his normally soft and flabby belly was round and tight, an impressive dome protruding above the drawstring pajama pants he normally wore. He thumped it, reveling in his capacity.
Urrrp. Outdid myself. Urp. He was poking at his distended and swollen belly, proud of his creation. f I ate another bite I might explode. Heh, heh, heh. Hic! He paused to let the loud gurgles and groans from his overloaded stomach be heard. Hear that, man? A symphony of-hic-digestion, a-murrrp-choir of feasting. He hiccupped again and his eyes glazed, his smile became dopey. Stupid with gorging, he was drifting into hibernation.
Tina glanced at him, grinned, and gave him a hard poke in the belly. Wordlessly, Miles batted it away. Miles and Tina had an affectionate, pseudo-adversarial relationship, quick wits, similar senses of humor, and a shared affection for the ridiculous. Tina had eaten hugely, periodically proclaiming that she was really full and this was her positively last bite before loading her plate again. Her slacks were undone, her sweater rucked up, and she rested her long fingers on a tummy roundly distended and swollen with a great deal of goose and potatoes. She poked at her own bloated gut, splayed her fingers over its swell, then patted it lovingly, maternally.
Food baby, she crooned. Ill name it Little Miles.
Miles opened one drowsy eye and stroked his tangled beard. Not so little, he grunted, patting it himself. Baby looks like his daddy. He grinned.
Eventually, our guests dispersed, wanting to get home before it got dark and too seriously cold. Brian and I hauled ourselves up, grunting, and surveyed the damage.
Of that enormous feast, virtually all of one goose and half the second was gone. Gone too were the cranberry sauce, mashed potatoes and gravy, rolls, macaroni, Brussels sprouts, and one and a half pies. Half a pie remained, along with remnants of peas and corn, half the pan of sweet potatoes, and a third of the pan of macaroni and cheese. I opened the tiny fridge and stared helplessly. Beer, cola, creamer, butter, oranges, cheese, and sausage crammed the minute space.
We looked at each other. Theres no space for any of that, Brian said. I smiled wryly and reached for the macaroni and opened the microwave.
To help us along, Brian put a CD of Christmas music on. We turned out most of the lights and sat side by side on the sofa, wordlessly and slowly oh, so slowly spooning up leftovers.
I grunted. Mmmf. Hic. I paused and rubbed my chest for a minute, then resumed. My stomach was still stuffed to the brim, and while my immediate discomfort had eased, I wasnt in the least hungry. But I couldnt bear to waste food, and neither could Brian. And after what shed paid to ship it, Mom would kill me if she found out we threw half of it away. I swallowed mouthful after mouthful of macaroni, washing its creamy deliciousness down with cola. Brian plugged away on the goose, shredding off pieces and slurping them from his fingers.
This is crazy, I said, puffing. I was full up to my eyebrows, so full it hurt to breathe; my belly was swollen well proud of my undone jeans, and I could see my belly button like a tiny cupola atop a roundly bloated dome of gorged and bloated gut.
I know, Brian mumbled through a mouthful of goose. But what are we gonna do?
I finished the macaroni after what felt like years and helped Brian pick the last shreds off the goose. Then we gobbled down the remnants of peas, corn, and sweet potatoes. I groaned.
God-hic-gonna die-hic, I grunted. I was about to explode. My stomach throbbed, heavy and warm under my hand, engorged and distended, past being maxed out.
Brian thumped heavily onto the sofa with the half a pie and two spoons. He belched.
Oof. Urrp. Almost-urp-done, he grunted. Slowly, dizzily, we managed to scrape the pie tin clean. In a daze we hauled ourselves up, wobbling heavily under the slosh and churn of overloaded stomachs, and waddled staggering to the bedroom. We tugged off our clothes and slowly and cautiously lowered our brimming bodies onto the bed.
Brian closed his eyes and cradled a breast, then slid his hand down to the taut swell of my tummy, resting on its warmth, and I laid a hand on his own bloated gut, heavy and welcoming, sloshing like the tide along the beach. Giving thanks for everything, we silently turned to each other.
Cooking the Goose
by Big Beautiful Dreamer
How I ended up with Brian in Prague at Thanksgiving is a long story with which I wont bore you. But of course nothing would do but for us to assemble our other expatriate buddies and do our best to approximate a Thanksgiving feast.
My mom, ever helpful, had mailed a huge box it must have cost her a fortune six cans of cranberry sauce, three big bags of stuffing mix, three cans of pumpkin, little zip bags full of the pinches of this and that spice for the pie, even cans of peas and corn. Shed even cooked and pureed the sweet potato and packaged it up in Tupperware (with a note: Return Tupperware!!). All we had to buy was a couple of huge geese, butter, celery, potatoes, whipped cream, pie crusts, and of course wine. Id e-mailed that we were expecting up to six people, and Mom, of course, had sent enough food for twelve. Still, we thought our guests might bring friends, so we set to and busied ourselves in a frenzy of preparation.
In the excitement, we entirely forgot that the flat had a tiny and inefficient refrigerator and there would be no way of storing any leftovers. (Ill get to that.)
The flat was small, but we were creative. Serving plates were set on the stove, on the open oven door, on the kitchen counter, the cranberry sauce was in the bathtub, and the sweet potatoes on a chair in the living room. The Brussels sprouts were on top of the TV and the homemade macaroni and cheese in the sink.
Eight of us, all Americans, all in Prague for different reasons, all half a world away from home on Thanksgiving. We drank and talked and ate and ate and ate to take the edge of our combined melancholy. Carbs have serotonin, right?
Afterward I moved the sweet potato dish to the floor and sank into the vomit-green Sixties-vintage chair, stretching my sock feet toward the noisy space heater.
Ooohhhh. I let out a long groan and fumbled my jeans open. They had fit just that morning, but now they were much too tight. I got the zipper down, and my swollen and seriously aching belly swelled into the opening. I pressed my hands gently and tentatively against my midsections gorged distention, rock-hard and tight as a drum. The skin over my abdomen pulled and tugged at my sides and my overloaded stomach, packed to the brim and beyond, churned and knocked and groaned like an ancient washing machine pulled out of balance by too many pounds of rich food.
The butter-laden stuffing, the thick gravy, the sweet density of the sweet potatoes, the garlic and almonds and assorted additions to the vegetable dishes, the dill and whole milk in the potatoes, the pure sugary slickness of the cranberry sauce, all stirred well with many glasses of wine: I felt laden, heavy and dopey with engorgement. I belched once, then twice, finishing with a loud hiccup that really made me fear that my bloated and stretched belly might pop under the strain.
Brian sprawled on the floor, propped against the scrungy sofa, a pillow behind his head. His jeans were also undone, and the edge of his T shirt, pulled too snugly across his swollen belly, didnt quite cover the ballooning protrusion of fullness. A pale crescent moon of tautly distended abdomen peeped. His eyes at half mast, lids fluttering in repletion, he rested his hands on his own undoubtedly aching gut.
Joe and Evelyn, Lily, Tina, Erik, and Miles our other expats were similarly laid out in various states of protrusion. Lily was normally model-thin, but shed indulged herself hedonistically today, and her normally concave tummy swelled roundly out beneath her think pink sweater. Her size 0 jeans were unbuttoned and I could see her navel crowning a tight mound of full belly.
Joe and Evelyn, newly married, were reveling in the fact that Evelyn had conceived on their recent honeymoon in Vienna. Evelyn had proclaimed herself starved for everything and had enthusiastically plowed through three or four heaping platefuls. Joe had laughingly matched her intake, and now they were resting in the bedroom, no doubt with jeans undone and bellies swollen as if to provide a preview of what Evelyns belly might look like by summer.
Erik was one of those scrawny brainy types, lonelier than the rest of us, I think. Hed eaten a decent amount, but hadnt drunk much and hadnt stuffed himself. He was idly finishing off the cranberry sauce and gazing out the window, not saying much. After a while, he got up abruptly and headed into the kitchen, silently volunteering himself for kitchen duty.
Miles, on the other hand, was an easygoing, enthusiastic quasi-Socialist, reveling in pursuing his graduate degree in a formerly communist country. He approached virtually everything in life with the same dive in! Why not! attitude, and that included food. He loved every cuisine hed ever encountered and had an adventurous palate. He had enthusiastically done some serious damage to the second goose all by himself and now his normally soft and flabby belly was round and tight, an impressive dome protruding above the drawstring pajama pants he normally wore. He thumped it, reveling in his capacity.
Urrrp. Outdid myself. Urp. He was poking at his distended and swollen belly, proud of his creation. f I ate another bite I might explode. Heh, heh, heh. Hic! He paused to let the loud gurgles and groans from his overloaded stomach be heard. Hear that, man? A symphony of-hic-digestion, a-murrrp-choir of feasting. He hiccupped again and his eyes glazed, his smile became dopey. Stupid with gorging, he was drifting into hibernation.
Tina glanced at him, grinned, and gave him a hard poke in the belly. Wordlessly, Miles batted it away. Miles and Tina had an affectionate, pseudo-adversarial relationship, quick wits, similar senses of humor, and a shared affection for the ridiculous. Tina had eaten hugely, periodically proclaiming that she was really full and this was her positively last bite before loading her plate again. Her slacks were undone, her sweater rucked up, and she rested her long fingers on a tummy roundly distended and swollen with a great deal of goose and potatoes. She poked at her own bloated gut, splayed her fingers over its swell, then patted it lovingly, maternally.
Food baby, she crooned. Ill name it Little Miles.
Miles opened one drowsy eye and stroked his tangled beard. Not so little, he grunted, patting it himself. Baby looks like his daddy. He grinned.
Eventually, our guests dispersed, wanting to get home before it got dark and too seriously cold. Brian and I hauled ourselves up, grunting, and surveyed the damage.
Of that enormous feast, virtually all of one goose and half the second was gone. Gone too were the cranberry sauce, mashed potatoes and gravy, rolls, macaroni, Brussels sprouts, and one and a half pies. Half a pie remained, along with remnants of peas and corn, half the pan of sweet potatoes, and a third of the pan of macaroni and cheese. I opened the tiny fridge and stared helplessly. Beer, cola, creamer, butter, oranges, cheese, and sausage crammed the minute space.
We looked at each other. Theres no space for any of that, Brian said. I smiled wryly and reached for the macaroni and opened the microwave.
To help us along, Brian put a CD of Christmas music on. We turned out most of the lights and sat side by side on the sofa, wordlessly and slowly oh, so slowly spooning up leftovers.
I grunted. Mmmf. Hic. I paused and rubbed my chest for a minute, then resumed. My stomach was still stuffed to the brim, and while my immediate discomfort had eased, I wasnt in the least hungry. But I couldnt bear to waste food, and neither could Brian. And after what shed paid to ship it, Mom would kill me if she found out we threw half of it away. I swallowed mouthful after mouthful of macaroni, washing its creamy deliciousness down with cola. Brian plugged away on the goose, shredding off pieces and slurping them from his fingers.
This is crazy, I said, puffing. I was full up to my eyebrows, so full it hurt to breathe; my belly was swollen well proud of my undone jeans, and I could see my belly button like a tiny cupola atop a roundly bloated dome of gorged and bloated gut.
I know, Brian mumbled through a mouthful of goose. But what are we gonna do?
I finished the macaroni after what felt like years and helped Brian pick the last shreds off the goose. Then we gobbled down the remnants of peas, corn, and sweet potatoes. I groaned.
God-hic-gonna die-hic, I grunted. I was about to explode. My stomach throbbed, heavy and warm under my hand, engorged and distended, past being maxed out.
Brian thumped heavily onto the sofa with the half a pie and two spoons. He belched.
Oof. Urrp. Almost-urp-done, he grunted. Slowly, dizzily, we managed to scrape the pie tin clean. In a daze we hauled ourselves up, wobbling heavily under the slosh and churn of overloaded stomachs, and waddled staggering to the bedroom. We tugged off our clothes and slowly and cautiously lowered our brimming bodies onto the bed.
Brian closed his eyes and cradled a breast, then slid his hand down to the taut swell of my tummy, resting on its warmth, and I laid a hand on his own bloated gut, heavy and welcoming, sloshing like the tide along the beach. Giving thanks for everything, we silently turned to each other.
