I've been sick for a week and the only region of my body not to fall apart yet is my stomach, which I am thrilled about, as I'm sure you can imagine. I don't have any appetite, though. I mean, I struggled through a taco yesterday. That's unheard of and, frankly, depressing. When The Swede gets sick he heads straight to the store and picks up an array of exotic berry soups and creams and slurps them with milk until he gets better. I don't really have anything like that, though. With the exception of ginger ale, I just go with what sounds good during a moment when I feel like I could manage a few bites of something. And today that was cinnamon toast, a treat I haven't had since I was a kid. It was delightful and I wanted to share my enjoyment with my husband who is taking such good care of me, but he was disgusted by the very sight of it. Just now he looked over my shoulder and told me not to blog about it so as to avoid embarassing myself. Whatever. If it wasn't awesome I'm pretty sure they wouldn't have made it into a cereal.