Journeys With Jani

Let me paint y’all a picture: it’s a peaceful Sunday just after my granddaughter’s birthday party, and we opt for dinner. I decide to treat this body (that I love, even if it betrays me) to a hearty little something from Los Mesquites.

I ordered the Cubana plate. Because why not? Life is short, pants are stretchy, and queso is eternal.

But somewhere between the beans, the rice, the mountain of meat, and what can only be described as molten green lava disguised as tomatillo sauce, I may have made a life-altering decision. That sauce was hotter than a NYC Fireman’s Calendar in July—but did I stop?

Of course not.

I’m a Southern woman. We eat with pride, not caution. I dabbed at my forehead like a dainty lady but kept right on goin’, because flavor triumphs over fear.

Well…

Fast forward to 2 a.m., and let’s just say things went sideways. Violently. Dramatically. Biblically. My stomach was audibly protesting like I had swallowed a marching band, and the rest of my body said, “Ma’am, we’re gonna need you near a bathroom at all times.”

Now, I’m not saying it’s that “bug that’s goin’ around” (even though everybody I know has had it, and their cousin’s dog too). No no, I’m just sayin’ maybe—maybe—that tomatillo sauce pulled me into spiritual warfare I was not prepared for.

I’ve been up and down all night like I was auditioning for a Pepto-Bismol commercial. One minute I’m freezing, next I’m sweating like a sinner in Sunday school. I’ve made dramatic promises to the Lord. I’ve googled “can you overdose on ginger ale?” And I’ve officially lost count of how many times I’ve told my cat, “If I don’t make it, tell the dogs I love them.”

But still. I do not have the stomach virus. I refuse to give it that kind of power.

I have… a culinary consequence.

So learn from me, sweet friends:

• If you feel brave enough to go for the extra-hot tomatillo sauce… maybe have a game plan.

• Don’t trust a meal that looks too beautiful and smells like heaven—it might be plotting against you.

• And if you wake up at 2 a.m. with your stomach doing gymnastics? Just know you are not alone. I’m here. In my bathroom. Sending love and cautionary tales.

With queasy love, light, and a whole lot of Liquid IV,

XOXO, Jani (your fire-breathed, lesson-learned, still-not-technically-sick travel advisor)