Betrayed by the FBI; Saved by the Vegetables

...FBI, in this case, stands for Food-Borne Illness,
the bitch that's been riding my back for the past 24 hours or so.

I thought it was the tequila, but I didn't have much at all; like, four shots over the course of several hours. Realistically, that ain't shit. Even on an empty belly.
What the tequila did contribute to the evening's debacle was my tipsy mortal weakness in the face of a meat-laden, rubber-crusted pizza from Papa John's. Oh, lordy. Within three or four hours of ingesting a couple pieces of that stuff-that-claims-to-be-food, it was rocketing forth from my mouth at a velocity that'd make the Cape Canaveral kids blanch with envy.
Terrifying.
How can they say that stuff is food? I mean, it's (barely) edible, sure, but it has the ability to turn the palate into an absolute wasteland, the gut into a chemical testing ground, and the body into one's own worst enemy.
It's fuckin poison, man.

Goatheaded gastronome that I am, I determined to make myself some real food, whether or not my body agreed, and somehow force myself to keep it down.

First off, by way of scene setting, my sweetheart and partner, the guy with whom I share a kitchen, is a really fuckin awesome Cajun cook. Like, not a pretender to the cuisine, but a real live Cajun by birth and blood, a gentleman who was makin' roux on his daddy's stove at age 5. That said, there's not much besides meat in our fridge. And, ohlordgawd, there was no way in hell I could keep anything resembling meat inside my body after 18 hours of vomiting.
Not even his beautiful duck.

I was getting suckerpunched with nausea every 5 or 10 minutes so didn't feel like risking the bike ride down to Waterfront Market for some fresh veg. Everything had to come out of what we had.
And did I ever need vegetables. And broth. Vegetables and broth. Yes.

We always, always have onions, garlic, carrots, and jalapenos, those comestibles whose fortitude is fortunately stronger than their timid aging. Sauteed those with a little dried thyme (out of fresh), some cayenne and allspice, a bay leaf and a few cracked peppercorns. Added a quart of water and cooked it all down to Flavorful. In a separate little sauce pot, I had dried black-eyed peas, water, and a couple cloves of garden-grown garlic, cooking to creamy softness.

Otter came home in the middle of all this, after a long-assed day in the kitchen. Poor darlin was so tired and, after watching me chop, stir, stir, hold on to the counter and try not to puke, stir, stir, wobble with nausea, etc., he began determinedly trying to skooch me away from the stove so he could finish making my meal.
Sometimes, even if it looks like I couldn't possibly be having any fun whatsoever, sometimes gripping the counter top and supporting my weight with a wooden spoon in an effort to take charge of my own sustenance is exactly what I need for my well-being.

I shooed Otter back with both a threat to disgorge on him and a promise to ask him for help if I really needed it. I added a couple of hurricane-emergency cans of Ro-Tel to the vegetable broth, smashed the pea-simmered garlic cloves with a spoon and tossed the whole mess into the soup pot, and then rough-chopped some on-its-way-out spinach and tossed that in, too. Yeah, I think that was about it. Oh, and good sea salt. Of course. I would've loved some fresh corn and okra, but y'know...for being on the cusp of projectile vomiting the entire time, I did pretty well.

And actually, the soup got Otter's approval.
Otter, who is suspicious of any dish without meat.
Otter, who thinks vegetarianism is some sort of mental disorder.
Otter, who cannot talk about "vegan food" without snorting.
He not only ate the soup (with a few extra jalapenos), but wolfed it down and was surprised it had so much flavor.
Vegetarian and vegan food is not as awful as most people make it.
In fact, veggies are the only thing my tortured digestive system didn't hurl back against the wall. This simple little soup took a few minutes longer (including swoon time) than ordering and devouring I'll Eat It If I'm Drunk pizza, but it actually contributed to my well-being rather than detracted from it. And I'll be goddamned if it wasn't tasty enough to warrant kudos from a carnivore. Hell, yeah.