Eat Drink Run Woman

Things sure have been quiet in EDRW land.  I WISH I could say it’s because I’ve been out earning Marathon Maniac stars by the dozen, but today was the first time I ran since October 25.

Remember that deal with the devil?  Apparently he wasn’t quite through calling in his chips.  After running almost 20 miles over three days (including a particularly speedy 6.5-mile run at an 8:35 average pace), I awoke last Sunday morning with yet another sore throat and skin that hurt to the touch.  It was so bad I canceled Monday’s cook date and skipped the gym for an entire week.  But the worse thing was how my running suffered.  As of Oct. 25 I was just 13 miles shy of a 100-mile month — my lowest for almost a year.

I wasn’t too concerned in the beginning of the week; I assumed I’d be well enough to get in a couple of runs by the end.  My darling and I had booked a room at the Willows Lodge for our dinner at the Herbfarm, and we planned on getting in a run along the Sammamish River Trail before getting ready for dinner.  However, by Tuesday my cold had settled into my chest and I spent several sleepless nights hacking away.  It was clear my 100-mile month wasn’t going to materialize, and I feared my coughing would jeopardize our romantic dinner.

Hoping to stave off a coughing fit, I turned to my neighborhood pharmacist.  He was a bit taken aback when I asked him for recommendations for cough suppressants that could be taken with wine, but I explained to him we’d be dining at the Herbfarm and abstinence was NOT an option.  While he researched alternatives, his assistant jokingly said she always heard the best thing was a shot of whisky with some lemon and honey.  Not being a huge fan of whisky, I decided to see what the pharmacist said.  As long as I took the suppressant a couple of hours before imbibing I’d be fine, he promised.  I grabbed a package of Mucinex and a couple packs of cough drops and headed out.

Before I regale you with tales of our evening’s woe, some background is in order.  (Warning — the following is not for the faint of stomach).

The Herbfarm is one of those only-on-special-occasion restaurants — terribly expensive, yet a foodie’s dream.  It features a themed 9-course prix fixe dinner with wine, served in a sumptuously cozy and romantic dining room with soft, soothing lighting.  We first went on my 40th birthday, then returned about a year later for the truffle menu (featuring both the chocolate and mycological variety).  Later that same year my darling received a gift certificate for shooting the wedding photos of a friend.  We decided to go for our anniversary, booking a room at the Willows to save us from driving home.

That evening’s theme was “Rogue Bins and Bottle Booty” where they raided their wine cellars, pairing the food to match.  Unfortunately this came on the heels of 12 weeks of being on the wagon to jump start my weight loss.  Normally vast consumption of wine wouldn’t pose a problem, but at the time we were lightweights.

When I booked the room I let slip we were celebrating our anniversary, so we found a split of champagne waiting for us, which we downed while getting dressed for dinner.  Because we had already been to the Herbfarm a couple of times, we skipped the pre-dinner intro/garden tour, choosing instead to head to the Barking Frog next door for a cocktail (vodka martini for me, shot of Lagavulin for my darling).  So by the time we were seated for dinner, we already had quite the buzz going.

The proprietors are always quite generous with their pours, but on this evening the wine flowed ever-so-freely.  By the time I took the last bite of my grilled squab stuffed with fennel-walnut pesto I was well-lubricated, although I found no need to stop drinking.  Alas, as I savored the Estrella Valentina cheese with roasted plums and spice bread (the 7th course), I found the room spinning and my stomach churning.  Within moments I turned into Pukey Brewster, Punky’s alcoholic cousin (fortunately I was able to make it to the rest room).  Not wanting a repeat performance in the dining room, I decided to forego dessert and excused myself, staggering woozily back to our room.

It took another three years before I could show my face again.

Thanks to another friend’s wedding a couple of months ago, we’d be dining at the Herbfarm yet again — this time on Halloween.  Although it’s a fancy/schmancy place, costumes were highly encouraged (sorry — we didn’t take any pictures).  While we didn’t have any champagne, we figured a pre-dinner cocktail at the Barking Frog wouldn’t hurt (I chose a pomegranate lemon drop for the Vitamin C).  I also planned on drinking LOTS of water during dinner, not only to keep my cough at bay, but to also dilute the wine.

Although the cough drops messed with my taste buds, I knew they’d be the only way I’d make it through dinner.  There were a couple of coughing spurts, but nothing too bad.  But as the chef and sommelier began their 15-minute presentation of the menu and wines, I could feel a hacking fit bubbling to the surface.  Nothing could stop it — not the cough drops, not the water.  I rushed out of the dining room, unleashing a series of deep, barking coughs.  It took at least 10 minutes before they subsided, but fortunately by now I was in the rest room, well out of earshot.

I stepped into one of the stalls to tinkle when I felt a small pop on the front of my chest and the sensation of something bursting free.  I couldn’t believe it — I had coughed so forcefully I broke the plastic clasp on the front of my bra!  Fortunately you couldn’t tell — I’m no Chesty LaRue after all — and I toyed with just taking the damn thing off.  However, I had no place to store it; my purse was barely large enough to hold my ID and a tube of lipstick.  I decided to just leave it the way it was (the cups are somewhat molded, so the girls stayed in place).

Once back at the table one of our seat mates suggested a remedy to suppress the cough — whisky with lemon and honey.  As luck would have it my darling had a flask  of Lagavulin, so I asked for some hot water, lemon and honey and slyly poured a snort of the whisky in.  A couple of those and my coughs were back to a more manageable state.  We finished dinner without incident, and even won a bottle of wine for the best couple costume.

Unfortunately as I settled into our plush, cushy bed at the lodge the hacking fit started up again.  I could barely catch my breath, and eventually my gag reflex kicked in.

(Let me remind you again: the following is NOT for the faint of stomach).

Soon the phlegm was flying, and my darling grabbed a wet cloth for me to wash it off my hands.  But the coughing persisted and suddenly — WHAT THE FUCK? — something much more solid was shooting out of my mouth.  I was horrified to see my partially digested dinner sprayed down the side of the bed’s pristine white sheets.  I was totally mortified and disgusted.  We cleaned it up as best we could (I feel sorry for the poor maid who has to deal with it) and I tried to get some sleep.  But now not only did I have to deal with the hacking, I now had eau de vomit emanating from the sheets.  So much for a romantic getaway!

I’m happy to say the coughing has lessened considerably, and I even ventured out for a VERY slow 3-mile run today.  But I don’t think we’ll be heading back to the Herbfarm any time soon.  We’re obviously cursed!