My wife recently came down with a nasty cold. This was good news for me because I got to play doctor.

I’m not talking about playing doctor in the way that you’re thinking. I was finally able to make use of some of the consumer-grade medical equipment that we have acquired over the years.

“Get that pneumatic cuff away from me!” my wife exclaimed at one point. “I have a stuffy nose, not high blood pressure!”

“That sounds exactly like someone who has high blood pressure,” I observed.

“Well, it’s high now!”

I wasn’t affected by my wife’s germs even though we’d had close physical contact in the form of cuddling. I attribute this to clean living, getting plenty of outdoor exercise, and eating right. By “eating right” I mean consuming lutefisk at least once a year. According to my wife, nothing — man, woman, or germs, but especially woman — can withstand the noxious odor of lutefisk breath.

The patient was a pleasant middle-aged woman who presented with an occasional cough and epic levels of nose honking. She was awake, alert, and oriented. After peering over my shoulder at the computer screen, she told me to stop referring to her as “the patient.”

The patient didn’t appear to have a fever, but this was difficult to determine with any accuracy as she frequently ordered the attending to “get away from me with that stupid thermometer!”

The patient took to bed where she rested and drank copious amounts of fluids. At one point, she sent me a text to request a cup of hot tea and honey.

“You could have just told me that you want some tea,” I said. “I’m literally only 10 feet away.”

“I know,” she replied. “But your hearing isn’t what it used to be, and I wanted to make sure that you didn’t bring me hot peas and money.”

It was impressed upon me that we needed some critical supplies. As per the patient’s request, they included tapioca pudding which, she insists, has mystic curative properties. Looking at the shopping cart, I wished that I’d had the foresight to invest in the company that makes Kleenex. Ditto for the companies that make acetaminophen and various OTC cold remedies.

One day the patient reported that she felt especially “yucky.” I made the command decision to bring out the big guns, medically speaking.

I instructed the patient to settle in her recliner. I then placed Sparkles the Healing Cat on her lap. Within minutes the patient reported that she was feeling much better due to the effects of Sparkles’ powerful purring vibrations.

I found myself in charge of the household during my wife’s recuperation. I was shocked when I entered the laundry room and stumbled upon vast piles of unwashed clothing. Clearly our washer and dryer were on the fritz, having lost their ability to automatically cleanse the dirty clothes that had been left for them. I decided to conceal this sad news from my wife until she felt better.

A similar situation was discovered at the kitchen sink. Dirty dishes were stacked in a manner that resembled the Leaning Tower of Pisa. I added “call a plumber to install a new kitchen sink” to my growing “honey do” list.

It occurred to me that Valentine’s Day is just around the bend. I would like to do something more romantic for my wife than bringing her a serving of tapioca pudding.

What would knock it out of the park, romance-wise, would be a trip to Paris. This was obviously not possible while my wife was going through facial tissues at a rate that would rival a tickertape parade.

A nifty alternative would be making beignets for her. Some friends of ours recently visited New Orleans and gave us a box of beignet mix. Beignets are French; enjoying some of the homemade deep-fried pastries is probably as close as we will get to visiting Paris.

I had never even seen a beignet, let alone make one. But I’ve never let such trivial matters as a total lack of knowledge and experience stand in my way.

I followed the instructions on the box — sort of — and managed to fry up golden brown blobs of assorted sizes and shapes. The hot beignets were sprinkled generously with medicinal powdered sugar and given to the patient. She declared them delicious.

“But they’re kind of weird and lumpy,” I pointed out.

The patient looked directly at me and replied, “I’ve grown accustomed to that after all these years.”

In my professional opinion, the patient is well on her way to a full recovery.