Sweet Jesus, help me. I'm sick. I ate too much pound cake and ice cream after supper. Now, no matter how still I lay, the world won't stop spinning. I had to unbuckle my belt just to keep from passing out.
This is all my wife, Jamie's fault. She's a feeder. And if you know "feeders," you know their God-given roles in life are to stuff you so full you need help getting your own pants off. It's in their blood.
The truth is, feeders are God's gift to humanity. They were sent to earth to baptize us in trans-fats and peppermill gravy. And they don't get thanked nearly enough for it.
They work their fingers raw. They'll stir a pot of collards in one hand, and knead dough in the other. They'll glaze ham, chop coleslaw, fry chicken, stir grits, and buy you a new pair of stretchy pants, all in the same day.
My wife descends from a long line of feeders. Her father was a
card-carrying feeder. Whenever you wandered past his kitchen, you got pimento cheese on Bunny Bread, one slice of pound cake, Coca-Cola, and some Pepto Bismol.
He was the kind of fella who'd go to the trouble of preparing a nine-plate breakfast, just because it was Tuesday. Who'd spend eight hours on a steak supper — complete with sliced tomatoes. Who kept a can of bacon grease on the counter, and used a dollop in everything from turnip greens to Raisin Bran.
Feeders are special folks.
They deserve their own magnificent kitchens in heaven. Because Lord knows, they won't stop cooking once they get there. In fact, they wouldn't know what to do with their hands if it weren't for whisks and electric mixers.
These kind souls believe all your troubles can be treated with chicken and dumplings. And if you waltz through their door wearing a sad face, they'll start flouring up…