David spoons mushroom gravy over the chicken I made him.  I know what 
he's thinking. It's a mix, he can tell, but I'm sorry, I just don't have 
the time or the money to make it from scratch, and Lord knows I can never 
get the balance right.

     "This meal is all out of balance," he says.  "You got the crumbly kind 
of biscuit, and that just doesn't work.  Look, the chicken has a grain to 
it, like wood, right?  So you gotta have the layered biscuits, not the 
crumbly kind."

     He's been like this since the stroke.  Once he got back to his old 
self, except for his left side's a bit weak, I told him I'd treat him to 
dinner anywhere he wanted to go.  He said he heard his doctorsay something 
about a French restaurant downtown, something "Boheme" or something.  So we 
went there and got two specials - turned out to be something like stingray 
with butter.  I couldn't eat much.  But it was all David talked about for a 
month.

     Before, he'd just get something at Waffle House for lunch, then go 
back to the plant, and he didn't ask for much at dinnertime.  But the stroke 
messed up his work, and he would be homebound all day, so I had to find a 
job answering a phone. He started cooking, which was a relief.  Then he 
started experimenting with spices, and scallops, and artichokes, and 
avocadoes, and it was hard to keep on a budget.

     It's gotten to where I can deal with the Customer Service callers 
better than I can deal with him.

     He's about to say something.  He's trying real hard to swallow.

     "You know, the beans aren't right.  No, maybe asparagus, with 
hollandaise.  Asparagus has a grain to it, too.  Then we'd be looking at 
variations on a theme.  Then we'd have balance."