Been dying for some northern African food, such as couscous, and have been meaning to make it myself if only I could find an easy recipe and ingredients. Well, yesterday, my wife came back from the supermarket with this retort set.

Starving, I threw it together, added extra cumin and black pepper and dug in.

For a retort-packed meal it was alright. Better than nothing and good inspiration to finally get off me arse and make the real thing.

Six hours later, though, I started feeling funny in my tummy. A small burp came up—cumin, chicken, and chickpeas.

Uh oh.

More burps.

This ain’t good.

Then my stomach started to hurt. Not too bad, but constant. I took some bioferomin, drank some water and went to bed to try and sleep it off.

Thing is I couldn’t sleep.

The box said the food had been made in Tunisia, packed in Japan. Tunisia. It was one of the few countries that managed to escape the instability and violence of the Arab Spring, if memory served me correctly. But it now felt like there was a coup d’état going on in my stomach.

After several hours tossing and turning, I got up, sat on the toilet and contemplated options. If I lie down I’ll probably chuck Tunisia up, her peace-loving citizens and all.

I got some yogurt, ate that, then sat down on the sofa and tried to keep my mind off of things.

When my wife found me, she asked what was the wrong. The cous cous, I said.

"Are you going to vomit?"

Don’t say that word!

"The other day when we had Chinese, I felt sick, too. I made myself throw it all up and . . ."

Stop talking!

"Just stick your finger in your throat and tickle . . ."

WOMAN!!! Leave me alone!

"Suit yourself."

I managed to fall asleep on the sofa, but woke up in a cold sweat an hour later. Sat on the toilet again, ruminating. I should have vomited Tunisia up hours ago. If I had listened to my wife, I’d be out of the woods by now, sound asleep in bed. Too late now, though: internecine skirmishes were already moving south

Don't know about you, but I can count the number of times I have vomited in my life: six. I just don’t spew cookies like others do. Even after eating Tunisian food that had gone bad.

And so, I went back to the sofa and fell asleep. Three hours later I woke up feeling fine. The struggle was over. Peace had been restored. But I vowed: NEVER again would I eat a retort meal from a northern African nation.