Cook her up a feast

You resolve to take some liberties in the mean time.
There's a pack of hot dogs and a bag of deep fried chicken fingers in the freezer, butter and milk aplenty in the fridge, and at least a dozen boxes of store brand mac and cheese, all lined up and ready to be sacrificed to Lola's appetite.
You clatter out the chicken fingers, all of them, on a baking sheet, and tuck them in with the two casserole dishes. The wave of heat rushes you on and you starting two saucepans of water to boiling for the mac and cheese and hot dogs. As you're preparing all this bountiful provender, Lola calls out to you from the living room.
"Hey, how's it going in there?"
"Fine, it'll be done before too long."
You weren't lying, it so happened; you at last pull the chicken fingers out of the oven and plate everything, arranging it all on the now even more cluttered dining room table, and then call to her. She hummed a high tune and began rocking her vast bulk back and forth, until at last she got a grip on her walker. A few moments later, she turned herself around and her jaw dropped.
"Oh my God... did you...", she says with one hand over her mouth.
"Yeah... I hope you don't mind, it's just this felt like... a special occasion, you know?"
"You... uh... really didn't have to do this..."
She can't seem to take her eyes off the spread. In fact, behind her just-parted plump lips, you can see the faintest glimmer of a bead of drool starting to roll down her fat chins.
"Well hey, why don't you sit down and I'll take care of it. Do you want me to put some stuff away?"
"Um no, no, you don't have to do that. Let's just sit down and I guess we can have a little of everything."
With that, she scoots two chairs, which you shortly see are zip tied together, away from the table to sit down. She drops her overgrown ass down onto them with a dry groan of the wood, and her cheeks still overflow either side by a few inches. A few more wooden squeals resound as she drags her seat closer to the table, and at last she wipes away a bead of sweat and gestures to a chair beside her.
"Go on, make yourself comfortable!"
You do as she commences at once to load up her plate with a little bit of everything, then hands you the spatula.
And the feast begins.
You find yourself hardly touching your food as she sends her steaming pile of fat, meat, and carbs the way of Jimmy Hoffa. The hillock shrinks by the second to the tune of Lola's enthusiastic chewing; she coos and hums, too, in a near rapture of gluttony, and for a second you could swear you heard her whinny in gustatory pleasure. Her round, fattened cheeks don't spend a single contiguous second not stuffed and inflated to almost double their size, and her throat shares in the flare of excess. At last the plate empties, and she pauses to put a napkin to some of the drool and foodstuffs cascading down her neck fat and cleavage.
"That brand of hot dogs is so good, God damn..."
"I heard they are, yeah."
"And... something about the way you cooked that casserole was... wow, that was tasty..."
"I was kinda generous with the garlic powder. That it, you think?"
"Maybe, maybe..." She gave you a faint smile, and a hint of a blush.
But she was already piling more food on her plate. It all mixes together on her plate, then in her mouth, then in the gurgling depths of her belly. And that gurgling grew louder and louder as the cycle continued. Scoop, shovel, swallow, repeat. She stops saying anything at all after a couple more times, instead starting to gorge herself faster and faster. And without conversation or even your own dinner to distract you... you dared not put your hand out near the food when she was practically vacuuming it all into her gut... you begin to notice something.
She's getting fatter.
Not in the analytical or deductive sense, either. As she's been reduced to a mindless eating machine, you can see her outline gradually, but visibly, swell and round out. Creases and loose spots in her shirt disappear one by one. By the time she's eaten an entire dish of casserole, a pot of mac and cheese, and an amount of meat equivalent to one fatass chicken, her weathered old X Men shirt is stretched skin-tight and her leggings are starting to split down the seams from her exposed, burgeoning belly. Her eyes are closed and she's moaning through cheeks that grow more bloated with every gulp. Then, at last, she slows to a stop.
"Oogh..."
She just sits there red-faced for a few moments.
"I don't know if I can finish this..."