The stomach flu that took out Pinta last week hit me as well. I spent much of Friday and the weekend recovering. I was very grateful that I had made an emergency batch of chicken soup a few days earlier. It was just about all I ate for a while. So I wasn't cooking much. Which was okay, as no one in my family was really eating.
We served the kids an absurd menu. One evening they had cereal for dinner. I felt well enough at one point to eat a Fresh Direct entree of lobster ravioli. Their servings are smaller than what I would give myself, but I couldn't finish my four ravioli. I found this experience oddly satisfying. Far too often (as in just about everyday) I cannot complete one meal without thinking about the next. I'm rarely full, and have overeaten only about once in my life. When I was sick, though, I had a more modest appetite. Was this how other people often felt? How liberating.
As I was recovering on Sunday, I spent part of the day lounging around reading the paper. I came across Mark Bittman's article about how much kitchen-space a man needs. Dostoyevsky had it right: six feet is plenty.