The fish are alive. Ben Fish continues to eat every pellet dropped in the bowl. Aliyah Fish is still an incompetent eater who regurgitates every bite she takes. Amazingly, she lives. Maybe she's sneaking cookies and chocolate from our fridge in the middle of the night.
And that all-too-sober, protein-deficient month of September is, thank Vishnu, over. We're proud for having achieved our perplexing goal of abstinence, and have vowed never to make such a foolish commitment again.
We broke the fast on a Sunday. I drank whiskey and beer on the wrong side of noon. We ordered two greasy pizzas -- pepperoni and chili chicken -- from a delivery joint called Smokin Joe's. We sat on our terrace with our Aussie neighbor Danielle and reveled in sun and meat. I never thought flesh could taste so good.
And, of course, by 3 p.m. we felt ill. It turns out that returning to action after a meatless month can even make the most ravenous bacon-scarfing cheeseburger fiend sick. My stomach roiled. I belched more in an hour than I had all year. I could almost hear the pig oinking and the chicken clucking from the dark recesses of my churning abdomen.
Nothing a little nap wouldn't cure. By dinner I was back. We ordered way too much meaty, oily, gooey gloop from the Om Hotel, and I washed it down with a cold beer.