I was visiting my great grandmother (Nennie) in Portsmouth, NH, and my Uncle Jon was there, and he and I went out to the local bakery and brought half a dozen eclairs back for dessert.
I was maybe 8 or 10 at the time. Somewhere in there.
And I had one, and it was delicious. Probably should have had half, but no, I ate the whole damn thing.
And then I kinda felt woozy later, but my mom dismissed it as too much sweets. And so I went to bed on the little travel mattress in the floor of the drawing room, just off the main living room, where I was staying the night (gorgeous, big old house — I once dreamed I’d buy it back into the family someday, but I doubt that will ever happen).
And then, about a half hour after I went to bed, with almost no warning, I threw up, all over my pillow and bed and pajamas and hair.
I remember it vividly.
So, even now, 25-30 years later, I become slightly nauseous even looking at an eclair.
[And now, to wait for my mother to read this, and tell me how I’m remembering it all wrong.]