She comes by it honestly.

Friends, I'm sorry about that. How sweet of you to not all lunge through the computer, shake me by the shoulders and demand, "What in the living fuck are you talking about?"

My excuse for the incoherence is that I've had some sort of stomach bug that had me puking all night Tuesday, bleary in bed all day Wednesday, and, until now, not really able to eat much other than crackers. Count yourselves lucky I didn't go into the cotyledons of pumpkins and the fins of sea turtles. (That will be in a poem that you won't need to worry your pretty internet heads about.)

Ingrid came down with the bug Friday morning (poor girl). It seems like a milder version than what got me, so far.

I sat next to her on her bed for a long time Friday, as she lay there all bleary and recovering from the worst of it. After a long quiet time she got a look of surprised inspiration on her face, and said, "Mama? Orange is made of orange juice."

Looks like half-sensical and thrilled-seeming talk in the wake of illness runs in the family.

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