Let me put it this way: if Aunt Rhonda was this good of a cook, I could very easily see myself becoming a permanent fixture in this non-traditional family.
My Aunt Rhonda guided me to the head of the dinner table where a smorgasbord of country cooking awaited me—and I knew in that instant that I was home. She ushered me into the room, pulled a chair that was just big enough to support someone of my size and weight (or, rather I should say my Aunt Sally’s size, since they were probably made with her in mind), and gave me a little napkin to put in my lap while she went to work on plopping a little bit of everything onto my plate.
Two pieces of country-fried chicken, a fat thigh and a juicy leg respectively, a mountain of mashed potatoes with a lake of gravy inside, three slates of meatloaf doused in ketchup to make a meaty slab of the stuff next to a serving of spaghetti casserole with so much meat and cheese I had trouble picking it apart from the equally enormous helping of macaroni pie were all plopped onto my plate with the tender love and care of a southern hostess, all served to me on what couldn’t have been anything smaller than a platter. She set it down in front of me, gave me my silverware, and told me to dig in…
So dig in I did.
I mean, I just fucking dove into my plate. Face-first, probably; my excitement sort of blurred my memory. But what I do know is that that was some of the best fucking food I’d ever had in my entire life. The potatoes were buttery and flakey, the casserole was meaty and just the right amount of saucy, and the meatloaf was so fucking perfect that I only regret I couldn’t have made a sandwich out of it. Seriously, my Aunt Rhonda had every lunchlady back at Buttercombe beat by a wide mile when it came to cooking up fat-girl feed.
But that was just the first plate.
As I continued to stuff—no, gorge myself on all of my aunt’s dinner delicacies, my mind started to get fuzzy. This food was so good, so delicious, I honestly don’t think that I would have stopped eating it if I didn’t have to. Even as my gut grew round and firm, its malleable massiveness growing hard in the middle as a food baby slowly expanded it outwards, all I could think was that I needed more.
About halfway through, I fussed with the button on my last pair of jeans; undoing them so as to allow my great big belly to seize forward and unzip them for me, and all bets were off. My stomach completely unencumbered, I ate and ate and ate and ate.
Looking back on it now, I probably gave a really shitty first impression. I mean, here my aunts were giving me a place to live for free, and then I go and eat the fuck out of most of their food. It was probably good that I gave them a good idea of what to expect from me now that I was squatting there—ie; eating the fuck out of most of their food—but I guess I sort of feel bad about it now.
I ate for hours. Dinner lasted until dark in my aunts’ home, something that I hadn’t done in a while. Not since Thanksgiving at Buttercombe Academy, actually, when my roommate had to get a trio of other girls to drag me back to our room.
I sat at the head of the table, the guest of honor in this little celebration, panting and wheezing up a storm. My face was beet red, and I was sweating so much that I must have been shiny. My poor belly was so big that I’d had to scoot back from the table about an hour beforehand, and it still wasn’t enough. My eyes were just barely focused, but I could very clearly see that between Aunt Sally and I, we’d pretty much decimated the dinner table.
As if to illustrate to my aunts how completely stuffed I was, I let slip the biggest, angriest burp I’d ever given—releasing some of the PSI in my dangerously overfilled gut.
“Well Ah’ll take that as a win for me!” Aunt Rhonda said with a proud smile as she started to clear the table, “How’d ya like yer first meal in yer new home, Mel?”
“S’good.” I burbled stupidly, “S’real good…”
“Good to hear.” Aunt Rhonda said with a pinch of my cheeks and a pat on my shoulder, “Also happy to see that this whole thing with mah sister hasn’t put a damper on yer appetite because, if ya couldn’t tell before, I like to cook.”
I laughed weakly, the action hurting my belly so badly that I honestly thought that I was going to barf.
I looked over to the panting, sputtering whale seated at the other end of the table—my Aunt Sally looked to be in a similar state as I was. At some point she’d popped a breast button on her blouse and I could see the crest of her valley of cleavage—as well as the skimpy black holder she’d shoved those boulders into. If I had to guess, my poor aunt got a little too excited herself at seeing all her favorites spread out before her… I know I had.
I mean seriously, fat girl gastronomies aside, I had really overdone it. I had been subsisting almost entirely on junk food since I’d graduated from prep school. My tummy was in no way ready to deal with the heavy onslaught of calories that my Aunt Rhonda had prepared for me. Don’t get me wrong, I loved a good meal as much (probably more) than the next fat chick, but I was seriously considering retirement.
After we sat there for a while, Aunt Rhonda cleaning up while Sally and I digested…
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