Big Beautiful Dreamer
ridiculously contented
~BHM, Eating. ~SWG - a new priest finds that food was given savour by the creator for a reason
[I could add to this story or leave it as is. Any preference?]
The plate was like something out of a fairy tale, Liam thought, he emptied it and it filled up again as if by magic. It wasnt really magic, of course, just his mother, who would go to her grave believing that all men and boys were bottomless pits.
You need some more turnips, Father. Liams plate vanished and reappeared, with not only turnips but also more carrots, beef, stewed plums, cabbage and onions.
It still jolted him that his own mam, whod diapered him, rocked him, scolded him, would probably never call him Liam again. His brothers and sisters tended to call him Liam mostly and Father occasionally, but his mam was old school and incapable of addressing a priest as anything but Father even when the priest was her own son.
Liam had to at least try to put a stop to the magical refilling plate. Mam, really, Im stuffed, he said truthfully.
Stuffed was not the word. As usual at Sunday dinner, he found himself full to bursting. His stomach bulged painfully over his belt, which he had already loosened a notch. Wincing, he pressed a hand to his aching belly, which was stretched painfully tight. He was too full to move as it was.
Mam clucked. A growing boy, Father. She set the plate down firmly. Couldnt she see the contradiction, Liam wondered. Was he not grown up and a priest? How could he still be a growing boy? He opened his mouth to try again and Rory kicked him under the table. Resigned, Liam picked up his fork and mechanically began putting away yet another plateful.
By the time it was finally empty, Liam felt rooted to the chair, his swollen and aching tummy pinning him in place. His gut, rounded and taut, was painfully stretched and he thought it might burst. He took the tea Mam handed him gratefully, hoping it would help. He sipped it slowly. Full as he was, the hot liquid felt good as it splashed into his bloated gut. After two cups, he thought he might eventually be able to move again.
Cautiously he pushed back his chair, a harder task than pulling it in, and braced his hands against the worn table. He stood, but found himself too stuffed to straighten up completely. Instead he hobbled into the parlor and sank into the worn wing chair, resting his feet on the much-re-covered footstool.
Aisling filled a pipe and handed it to Liam. At 14, she still had a kind of hero crush on her glamorous big brother, college educated, a priest and all. Liam lit a match and sucked hard on the stem. Getting it started, he relaxed and allowed his incipient drowsiness free rein. He listened to the chatter, half-dozing, until he heard Mam say, Can you stay for tea, Father?
Mmpf, he replied intelligently. Blinking, he gestured with his pipe. Cant, Mam. Confirmation preparations. Have to be getting back. He glanced out the window. Looked to be about 4:00.
Well, give us a blessing then, she said indulgently. Reluctantly Liam stood up and crossed the room to where Mam stood, hands folded, head bowed. He blessed her and made the sign of the cross over her. Beaming, she stretched up and pecked his cheek. Be good, now. Her parting words had never changed, never would.
The cool air and prospect of a mile and a half walk cleared Liams head. He started out, enjoying stretching his legs, and was back to the rectory before five. The priest was in his own wing chair, feet stretched to the fire. Good visit, Father? was his greeting to his curate.
Good visit. Thank you, Father.
What are your plans for the evening? the priest asked politely, though he already knew.
Confirmation in half an hour, he said. Frankie Malone will learn the Our Father if it kills both of us, he added cheerfully, and they both laughed. Poor thick Frankie Malone.
That night, back in his room, Liam stripped to his undershirt and shorts and prodded his thickening midsection. The only mirror was a small one at face height, so he could shave and comb his hair, but Liam didnt need a mirror. Looking down, he saw as well as felt that his waistline had grown since his ordination three years ago.
Ah, well. Plumpness was a sign of prosperity, and in any event no one seemed to care whether their priests were fat or lean. Father Dougherty was short and slight, and his predecessor had been tall and heavy, and both were liked and respected in the parish. Shrugging his shoulders, he knelt by his bed and began his prayers.
FEED ME FATHER
by Big Beautiful Dreamer
by Big Beautiful Dreamer
[I could add to this story or leave it as is. Any preference?]
The plate was like something out of a fairy tale, Liam thought, he emptied it and it filled up again as if by magic. It wasnt really magic, of course, just his mother, who would go to her grave believing that all men and boys were bottomless pits.
You need some more turnips, Father. Liams plate vanished and reappeared, with not only turnips but also more carrots, beef, stewed plums, cabbage and onions.
It still jolted him that his own mam, whod diapered him, rocked him, scolded him, would probably never call him Liam again. His brothers and sisters tended to call him Liam mostly and Father occasionally, but his mam was old school and incapable of addressing a priest as anything but Father even when the priest was her own son.
Liam had to at least try to put a stop to the magical refilling plate. Mam, really, Im stuffed, he said truthfully.
Stuffed was not the word. As usual at Sunday dinner, he found himself full to bursting. His stomach bulged painfully over his belt, which he had already loosened a notch. Wincing, he pressed a hand to his aching belly, which was stretched painfully tight. He was too full to move as it was.
Mam clucked. A growing boy, Father. She set the plate down firmly. Couldnt she see the contradiction, Liam wondered. Was he not grown up and a priest? How could he still be a growing boy? He opened his mouth to try again and Rory kicked him under the table. Resigned, Liam picked up his fork and mechanically began putting away yet another plateful.
By the time it was finally empty, Liam felt rooted to the chair, his swollen and aching tummy pinning him in place. His gut, rounded and taut, was painfully stretched and he thought it might burst. He took the tea Mam handed him gratefully, hoping it would help. He sipped it slowly. Full as he was, the hot liquid felt good as it splashed into his bloated gut. After two cups, he thought he might eventually be able to move again.
Cautiously he pushed back his chair, a harder task than pulling it in, and braced his hands against the worn table. He stood, but found himself too stuffed to straighten up completely. Instead he hobbled into the parlor and sank into the worn wing chair, resting his feet on the much-re-covered footstool.
Aisling filled a pipe and handed it to Liam. At 14, she still had a kind of hero crush on her glamorous big brother, college educated, a priest and all. Liam lit a match and sucked hard on the stem. Getting it started, he relaxed and allowed his incipient drowsiness free rein. He listened to the chatter, half-dozing, until he heard Mam say, Can you stay for tea, Father?
Mmpf, he replied intelligently. Blinking, he gestured with his pipe. Cant, Mam. Confirmation preparations. Have to be getting back. He glanced out the window. Looked to be about 4:00.
Well, give us a blessing then, she said indulgently. Reluctantly Liam stood up and crossed the room to where Mam stood, hands folded, head bowed. He blessed her and made the sign of the cross over her. Beaming, she stretched up and pecked his cheek. Be good, now. Her parting words had never changed, never would.
The cool air and prospect of a mile and a half walk cleared Liams head. He started out, enjoying stretching his legs, and was back to the rectory before five. The priest was in his own wing chair, feet stretched to the fire. Good visit, Father? was his greeting to his curate.
Good visit. Thank you, Father.
What are your plans for the evening? the priest asked politely, though he already knew.
Confirmation in half an hour, he said. Frankie Malone will learn the Our Father if it kills both of us, he added cheerfully, and they both laughed. Poor thick Frankie Malone.
That night, back in his room, Liam stripped to his undershirt and shorts and prodded his thickening midsection. The only mirror was a small one at face height, so he could shave and comb his hair, but Liam didnt need a mirror. Looking down, he saw as well as felt that his waistline had grown since his ordination three years ago.
Ah, well. Plumpness was a sign of prosperity, and in any event no one seemed to care whether their priests were fat or lean. Father Dougherty was short and slight, and his predecessor had been tall and heavy, and both were liked and respected in the parish. Shrugging his shoulders, he knelt by his bed and began his prayers.
