‘Twas the night of Xmas and my wife observed: “In our fifteen years together, I’ve never seen you throw up before.” I would have taken time out to agree with her if I hadn’t been fully committed to vomiting into the toilet bowl.
For it was true. The last time my stomach let me down was more than thirty years ago when I was working in the Hague and was invited to the boss’s house on New Year’s Eve. This was a great honour and I had dressed appropriately with a large, silk Mickey Mouse tie. The boss had two sons who decided to spend the evening introducing me to jenever, the Dutch gin, which slips down a treat until it catches up with you a couple of hours later, when I found myself in the boss’s immaculate toilet trying hard not to projectile vomit over the walls. The walls remained untarnished, but the tie was not so lucky, and I exited the loo to tell the startled wife of my boss that my tie was soiled with sick and I must go home immediately to wash it, and I loved her. Or apparently that is what I said, the whole evening had been something of a blur after the fourth jenever.
Since then, my stomach has been a steel guardian of whatever I stuck in it. Until….
One of the joys of Keto is that you can throw together all manner of sinful ingredients and enjoy them. Take a Fat Jack Shake for example.
1-2 Large Eggs
1/4 cup Heavy Whipping Cream
1 Tb Coconut oil
1 Tb Cream Cheese
4 Ice Cubes
1 Tsp Vanilla
Mix these together and you have wonderful creamy shake, as I discovered on Xmas eve.
Our plans for Xmas day were to have some lamb later in the day, so for breakfast I made another Fat Jack, and threw in a couple of shots of coffee for good measure. Delicious and filling. But by early afternoon I was still feeling unusually full and a little queasy, so lamb plans were put on hold. I went to bed feeling distinctly unwell and awoke at around 0100 to perform the first of four upchucks. Yesterday was spent feeling miserable with minimal food. This morning I woke early and my stomach said “bacon please”. so I deem myself recovered.
I don’t need to look far for the culprit. The eggs in a Fat Jack have to be raw, so in the absence of pasteurised eggs on the supermarket shelf, I pasteurised them myself. Clearly it takes more than 3 minutes at 60 degrees to clear whatever bacteria lurks within “hilltribe organic eggs”…
I shall not be having a Fat Jack again, although ironically I did lose more than 2 kilos by drinking one.