Dear Stomach,

I just want to tell you I'm sorry. When I first thought about eating the "few"-day old stir fry for dinner, something told me not to. When I first tasted the chicken and thought there was a hint of strange there, something told me not to eat it. But that something wasn't my brain, that's for sure. My brain said, "We're poor. Eat the leftovers. Don't let them go to waste." I should have listened, Stomach. I should have listened.

I guess you started to feel a little queasy when we got to Target. By the time I was ready to check out, you were really upset. And then by the time I had hauled the stuff from the car to the apartment and put Anna to bed, you were demanding my full attention.

And then I remembered something. A friend of mine, who was with us in Poland last year, spent the previous summer in Kiev. She didn't have a kitchen in her apartment and had to live off street food for a couple months. She said she once got a kebab that told her, after several bites, that it wasn't quite right. Too old or too undercooked, I don't remember. But feeling incredibly sick, she ate some yogurt and was miraculously cured.

So I decided to eat one of the fancy-pants yogurts that I got at the store today: Rachel's Plum Honey Lavender, which also claimed to have "calming" effects. (Heaven knows no one needed them more than me, at this point.) It was delicious, but sadly I was focused less on the taste and more on its ability to coat my stomach with a thick white layer of calm down.

I felt better almost instantly. Thank you, Yogurt. Even so, Stomach, I know you still haven't fully gotten over the effects of my unwise decision, but I hope you will accept the yogurt as a peace offering and that you'll eventually come around to forgiving me.

But I learned my lesson. Listen to whatever sixth sense was telling me to avoid the food in the first place, because eating fancy yogurt for medicinal purposes isn't saving anyone money.

Love,
Ashley