WG Story Drone
Well-Known Member
BHM, Dining, ~SWG A simple vignette of plain family eating . . .
I should have known, Alan thought as he sank gratefully into a recliner. With effort, he propped his feet up and leaned back to ease the pressure on his painfully swollen belly, which pushed against the straining waistband of his jeans.
After all, Steve had warned him. "Mama thinks you’re too thin," he’d said in the car on the way to the house after church. "She keeps saying she wants to fatten you up. And she’s been cooking for the better part of a week."
Sounded good to Alan, who was hungry for some good Southern home cooking.
During the blessing, Alan bowed his head but kept his eyes open to survey the table. It actually sagged in the middle from the weight of the countless serving dishes it held. It all looked homemade, and it all looked delicious.
Steve’s mother had heaped his plate. Alan hadn’t known a single plate could hold that much. Steve’s wife, Christy, had winked as she handed it to him. There was at least a day’s worth of food on the plate, all sending up delicious smells.
Alan took a deep breath and plunged in. He ate for what seemed like hours - crispy, steaming, deliciously moist fried chicken, salty ham, hot creamy lima beans, sweet corn, salted tomato slices, mashed potatoes and a smooth, rich gravy. He plowed through a pile of peas and found a hot buttered biscuit underneath. The spicy coleslaw was hiding under the ham. He found a couple of deviled eggs under the chicken. Just the way he liked them, cool, slick, a little tangy.
Finally his plate was empty. Unconsciously Alan leaned back and rubbed his full stomach. Then Christy handed him another plate. It was as loaded with food as before, and Alan hoped he'd gotten seconds on everything.
"Eat up," Steve’s mother urged. "You’re so thin a puff of wind would blow you away."
Not wishing to be impolite, Alan attacked the mountain of food. He'd gotten his wish, seconds on everything and an extra deviled egg this time. His jaws ached. He washed the food down with achingly sweet tea. As he finished, he suppressed a huge burp. His stomach bulged tightly, overloaded with food. The chair creaked ominously as he shifted in it.
Then Christy was handing him another plate. You’re kidding, right? Alan thought. He saw Steve receiving a similarly loaded plateful. "Come on, dig in!" Steve grinned hugely.
Discreetly, Alan reached under the table and unbuttoned his jeans, like that was going to help. Moving in slow motion, half stupefied with food, he began to eat. And eat. And eat. It still tasted good, a symphony of flavors, but by now he was so full he thought he might burst. Steve’s mother was like a stereotype of Southern mothers, Jewish mothers, immigrant mothers - "Eat, eat, eat!" Alan had never been so full in his life.
Then, astonishingly, another plate was handed to him. On it was a slice of coconut cake the size of Mount Fuji. Holy cow. He would have to eat that too. Experimentally, he tried to take a deep breath. Ow! He was much too stuffed for that. It was much easier to breathe shallowly with his mouth open. He was so full, he thought, he was puffing.
Slowly, slowly, taking small bites, he somehow managed to eat the cake. Delicious! Most, sweet, hints of almond flavoring, the unique taste of coconut. He suppressed another gargantuan burp. Was this meal finally over? It had all been so good, but now he was full to bursting. He wasn’t sure he could stand up, he was so sated. With effort, he pushed back his chair.
Bracing himself, he eased into something like a standing position. He was too full to straighten up. It hurt. Bent over, he staggered into the living room, where he had sunk into the recliner.
He leaned back, which took the pressure off his waistband, and eased down the zipper of his jeans. His swollen and aching belly ballooned out, stretched tight as a drum. If he swallowed another bite, he would pop. His stomach hurt, the skin pulled tautly over his midriff. Still puffing, he tried for a deep breath and hiccupped sharply. Unthinkingly, he let out a groan. Full, content, stuffed to the eyebrows, he drifted off into a nap.
Two hours later, he awoke to find Steve and Christy standing over him. "You’re alive, man," Steve said. "Hurry up. Wake up. It’s time for supper."
Grinning, Alan zipped up his jeans and got to his feet. "Lead the way," he said. "I’m starving."
Steve’s Mother
By Big Beautiful Dreamer.
By Big Beautiful Dreamer.
I should have known, Alan thought as he sank gratefully into a recliner. With effort, he propped his feet up and leaned back to ease the pressure on his painfully swollen belly, which pushed against the straining waistband of his jeans.
After all, Steve had warned him. "Mama thinks you’re too thin," he’d said in the car on the way to the house after church. "She keeps saying she wants to fatten you up. And she’s been cooking for the better part of a week."
Sounded good to Alan, who was hungry for some good Southern home cooking.
During the blessing, Alan bowed his head but kept his eyes open to survey the table. It actually sagged in the middle from the weight of the countless serving dishes it held. It all looked homemade, and it all looked delicious.
Steve’s mother had heaped his plate. Alan hadn’t known a single plate could hold that much. Steve’s wife, Christy, had winked as she handed it to him. There was at least a day’s worth of food on the plate, all sending up delicious smells.
Alan took a deep breath and plunged in. He ate for what seemed like hours - crispy, steaming, deliciously moist fried chicken, salty ham, hot creamy lima beans, sweet corn, salted tomato slices, mashed potatoes and a smooth, rich gravy. He plowed through a pile of peas and found a hot buttered biscuit underneath. The spicy coleslaw was hiding under the ham. He found a couple of deviled eggs under the chicken. Just the way he liked them, cool, slick, a little tangy.
Finally his plate was empty. Unconsciously Alan leaned back and rubbed his full stomach. Then Christy handed him another plate. It was as loaded with food as before, and Alan hoped he'd gotten seconds on everything.
"Eat up," Steve’s mother urged. "You’re so thin a puff of wind would blow you away."
Not wishing to be impolite, Alan attacked the mountain of food. He'd gotten his wish, seconds on everything and an extra deviled egg this time. His jaws ached. He washed the food down with achingly sweet tea. As he finished, he suppressed a huge burp. His stomach bulged tightly, overloaded with food. The chair creaked ominously as he shifted in it.
Then Christy was handing him another plate. You’re kidding, right? Alan thought. He saw Steve receiving a similarly loaded plateful. "Come on, dig in!" Steve grinned hugely.
Discreetly, Alan reached under the table and unbuttoned his jeans, like that was going to help. Moving in slow motion, half stupefied with food, he began to eat. And eat. And eat. It still tasted good, a symphony of flavors, but by now he was so full he thought he might burst. Steve’s mother was like a stereotype of Southern mothers, Jewish mothers, immigrant mothers - "Eat, eat, eat!" Alan had never been so full in his life.
Then, astonishingly, another plate was handed to him. On it was a slice of coconut cake the size of Mount Fuji. Holy cow. He would have to eat that too. Experimentally, he tried to take a deep breath. Ow! He was much too stuffed for that. It was much easier to breathe shallowly with his mouth open. He was so full, he thought, he was puffing.
Slowly, slowly, taking small bites, he somehow managed to eat the cake. Delicious! Most, sweet, hints of almond flavoring, the unique taste of coconut. He suppressed another gargantuan burp. Was this meal finally over? It had all been so good, but now he was full to bursting. He wasn’t sure he could stand up, he was so sated. With effort, he pushed back his chair.
Bracing himself, he eased into something like a standing position. He was too full to straighten up. It hurt. Bent over, he staggered into the living room, where he had sunk into the recliner.
He leaned back, which took the pressure off his waistband, and eased down the zipper of his jeans. His swollen and aching belly ballooned out, stretched tight as a drum. If he swallowed another bite, he would pop. His stomach hurt, the skin pulled tautly over his midriff. Still puffing, he tried for a deep breath and hiccupped sharply. Unthinkingly, he let out a groan. Full, content, stuffed to the eyebrows, he drifted off into a nap.
Two hours later, he awoke to find Steve and Christy standing over him. "You’re alive, man," Steve said. "Hurry up. Wake up. It’s time for supper."
Grinning, Alan zipped up his jeans and got to his feet. "Lead the way," he said. "I’m starving."
