This is a picture of the potato/cheese/broccoli soup and zucchini bread that I left at Melissa’s house today. You’ll note that it’s on her front step and isn’t being handed off graciously through an open door.
Because Melissa and her husband are very, very sick and I don’t want to catch it.
How do I know they’re very, very sick?
Because she jumped at the chance for me to make her a dinner. Honestly, I’m not that good of a cook, so it’s not normal for people to want to eat my food.
But Melissa suspects that they have pertussis, which is whooping cough.
I know all too well about whooping cough. I had it 10 years ago right after my son was born. The lack of sleep from dealing with a newborn coupled with the lack of sleep from coughing out my lungs all night long made me somewhat catatonic. By the time a clear thought managed to flit its way across my sleep deprived brain, that maybe I should see a doctor, I’d been whooping for 3 months, and the disease had run its course.
Without even needing Melissa to say a word, I can tell they’re miserable. I know this because when I told her that I would make them dinner, I expected The Dance. You know: The Dance. “I’d like to make you a meal.” “Oh, no, we don’t need a meal!” “But I’d really like to help.” “Well…if you’re sure…” “Yes, just let me know when to drop it off.” “Well if you insist…” “I do.” etc.
Melissa is so sick that as soon as I said, “I’ll bring you soup on Tuesday,” she immediately agreed. Whoa! That’s pretty sick!
I drove the soup to her house, dropped it on the porch, snapped a quick picture, and ran back to the car, holding my breath. Melissa peeked her head out of the door as she picked up the food and rasped out to me, from 50 feet away, “Thank you!”
I hollered back to her, “I’m making a huge pot of minestrone soup for some guests tomorrow night. We won’t be able to eat it all. Do you want the leftovers? My husband won’t eat them.”
And rather than recoiling from my tacky offer of leftovers that no one wants to eat, or even listlessly attempting to engage in The Dance, she practically melted into a pool of grateful tears and said, “That would be great! We’d love your leftovers!”
You can see why I ran away.