Letter concerning a culinary accident

My dear John,

as you know, I have been recovering from a serious illness that overcame me the moment Jeannie confessed to me her genious infidelity. It is as though I had been mastered by a puppeteer for a great deal of my mid-adulthood and I was unable to leave my bed for a solid fortnite after she revealed to me her deceit. Remember that marvelous show we used to watch as lads? Wallace & Gromit I believe. I was in dire need of a GET-U-UP machine. A few days ago I finally mustered some strength and ventured into my kitchen, desperate for a bite to eat. I assembled all the foodstuffs of my life up to that moment – of what I had in the kitchen there was much, due to Jeannie’s inclination: mustard (both mittelscharf and sweet), fudge (both white and caramel), fresh sage, butter (with herbs, salted, unsalted), violet oil, eggs, pine nuts, paprika-spiced corn, chocolate mousse, bifi etc. Frantically and close to starving, I threw everything in my blender ("the beast")... would this be the tastiest dish ever? No time to think, I proceeded to blend and seeing a uniform, purple mass I scooped it out into a white pudding bowl that Jeannie had found for me in France. All of a sudden, I noticed that, with no external help, the mixture had formed into a sort of pyramide with three apexes. It looked like my sister's birthday cakes, castle-like. So I decided to put some sprinkles on top, and I felt, for the first time since my decline, content. Excited, I began my first scoop but as soon as the spoon touched my meal, everything started swelling up. It wouldn't stop and I started pocking it with chopsticks. I have never been so scared in my life. Worst of all: it smelled delicious and all I wanted was to eat it. But luckily I was sane enough to realise that any bite would move the inexorable expansion to my insides and all would be over.... So i resisted and poked on. It was for nought and eventually I poured the special portwine that I had saved for my special piece of stilton onto the spongy mass... that was the end of it. I have since returned to incapability and despair and have only managed to pick up this pen for my stomach has been making noises so loud they echo thru the house. And I ask you... no, i urge you, to bring me a slice... no, a whole pizza pie! vodka please! i will always remain yours and promise to learn how to sustain myself from here on out. And please do not tell this to anyone.

Forever yours, n.n.

Mona Thierse