The "Big Daddy." That's what it was called. A phenomenon similar to the rotisserie chicken incident. That happened when I came off being a vegetarian after 10 happy years. But something changed in me that screamed that I needed meat, so I went to the grocery store and bought two rotisserie chickens - one for my family, and (yes indeed) one for me. Stood at the island in the kitchen and ate the whole thing. And I am not a large woman.

Today it was chicken tenders. Another scream for protein, for healing, for sustenance, for filling a hunger that had not been quieted for several days. I went to Tenders and ordered the "Big Daddy," six chicken tenders, fries, slaw, and a thick piece of buttery toast. I got the "Big Daddy" to have enough to share with Frank ... but ... he'd had lunch, oddly, earlier in the day at a meeting. So we sat at the table and talked while I ate the Big Daddy, politely sliding the Styrofoam box toward his side of the table every few minutes. He took maybe a bite of a tender, and maybe a spoonful of slaw, but I ate the whole thing. Even the bread. I ate the "Big Daddy" all by myself.