Something Made With Love

Hutch wakes up with a bad cold.

Hutch woke up with a head full of cotton wool and a throat that felt like it had been scraped by sandpaper.

“Ugggh,” was all he had the strength to mutter as he swung his legs out of bed and contemplated getting up. It took a moment or two, but eventually he was vertical and headed to the kitchen. He filled the kettle with water and put it on to boil then looked for his jar of honey and the lemon he was sure he had bought. Said lemon was nowhere to be seen.

Hutch grimaced. He’d have to go out to his nearest market and buy one. That meant getting dressed. “Ugggh,” he muttered again. He didn’t feel like going anywhere.

It crossed his mind to call Starsky and ask him to bring a lemon around with him when he came around for pizza and a movie later. As he hesitated, the phone rang.

“Hello,” he rasped into the receiver.

“Hutch, you okay? You sound like you’re losing your voice.”

“Just a head cold and a sore throat. Please could you bring me a lemon when you come over later?”

“Of course, pal. Anything else?”

Hutch rubbed his forehead. “Maybe some Tylenol?”

“Sure. I’ll be round soon.”

The call was ended before Hutch could protest that Starsky didn’t need to interrupt his day. Hutch sighed with exasperation but also relief. He replaced the handset and then went and crawled back into bed. He was soon fast asleep.

As he came to an hour later, he heard the kettle boiling and a soft whistling coming from the kitchen. He sat up and piled the pillows up behind him just as Starsky appeared with a steaming mug and a brown paper bag filled with grapes, which he set down on the bedside table. He also handed him two pills.

“How are you doing?”

“I’ll live. Thanks for coming over.”

Hutch took a sip of the honey and lemon and enjoyed the soothing sensation.

“No problem. You want some breakfast?”

Hutch nodded and tried to muster a thought as to what he wanted to eat.

After a minute, Starsky suggested, “Eggs on toast soft enough for your throat?”

“Yes. Thanks.”

Starsky nodded and went away to make breakfast. He soon returned with a tray holding a plate with fluffy eggs piled high on lightly toasted brown bread.

“There you go, pal.”

“Thanks. I’ll be okay now. You don’t need to stick around,” Hutch said as he picked up his knife and fork and started eating.

Starsky was looking him over and seem satisfied that he was okay.

“All right. I’ll go give my car her weekly clean and polish then I’ll swing by later with pizzas. We can turn movie night into movie afternoon and then you can get plenty of rest.”

Hutch nodded. “Thanks…but no monster movies.”

Starsky rolled his eyes. “You’re safe. Saturday afternoon it’ll probably be wall to wall Westerns.”

Hutch smiled. “I can live with a Western.”

Starsky grinned. “See you later, buddy.”

As his friend headed out, Hutch called after him, “Thanks Gordo. See you later.”

Then he got on with eating his breakfast. Why was it that if you were ill food cooked by other people always tasted better and full of comfort? Perhaps because it was filled with care and love.