It's been a month since we've been plumping the bun. We stick him on the scale every day and wish another ounce on him. We chase him around with buttered bread, milk with half and half in it, pasta with cheese and egg sauce. He laughs and eats more fruit. I think he's just about the same as before, but my husband, traditionally both more hypochondriacal and more pessimistic about doctors in general than I am, has been optimistically seeing the ounces inch up. Tomorrow we'll see who's right; the bun's got a follow-up doctor visit. Either way, we've decided that cheating is the only sure-fire way to get them to leave us alone, so no matter what we're putting rocks in his diapers for the weigh-in.
There is something perversely satisfying about drowning a bunch of defenseless cherries in brandy and sugar, and then taking a gigantic syringe and shooting up innocent strawberries with Cointreau, slowly plugging the fruity flesh with boozy goodness. I'm like a bootlegger pushing spirits on the weak and inanimate.