Updates

Where to begin? Here, I guess. I was struck by this story making the rounds yesterday about Professor William Cronon, who published a blog post critical of a little-known group, ALEC, from his personal computer, using his personal email, and suddenly found himself on the receiving end of an Open Records request (the Wisconsin State version of  FOIA) from the state's Republican Party.

The Party had no obligation to identify itself in their request, nor reveal their motivation. That is as it should be. Citizens should be able to demand of their government and government functionaries some accountability without fear of reprisal. And most "sunshine" laws are written to favor this transparency. In Wisconsin, for instance, most state agencies have very clear guidelines about what information must be provided, to whom, and how quickly. Professor Cronon's employer, the University of Wisconsin, has a succinct FAQ to assist those attempting to honor these requests to the full letter of the law. The rules are pretty simple:
         1. Usually open records:

agendas and official minutes of open public meetings university employee names, titles and salaries travel vouchers and reimbursement information other official records maintained by University offices, unless expressly exempted by law 

2. Usually closed records:

investigation records which pertain to possible employee discipline student education records employee and student social security numbers trade secrets medical records 

3. Records which are not "open records":

notes prepared by the originator for the originator's own use.

And what did the WI GOP request? Why door three, of course! They asked for:

". . . e-mails from Cronon's state e-mail account that 'reference any of the following terms: Republican, Scott Walker, recall, collective bargaining, AFSCME, WEAC, rally, union, Alberta Darling, Randy Hopper, Dan Kapanke, Rob Cowles, Scott Fitzgerald, Sheila Harsdorf, Luther Olsen, Glenn Grothman, Mary Lazich, Jeff Fitzgerald, Marty Beil, or Mary Bell.'"

Senator Joe McCarthy came from Wisconsin. I imagine he would be very proud.

But there is joy in Mudville! On the hot heels of my post about local, sustainable food in the DMV, comes the news that the Neighborhood Restaurant Group has a new project. I am just thrilled to read about the Food Bus. Congratulations and good luck on your capital campaign. It's nice to know that there are good people out there doing good things. 

Front and Center

If you've ever taken Psych 101, you know how incredibly attracted humans are to faces. Dogs like bums, and cats like, well, who knows what cats like. But simians, and we are simian, like faces. We also, or so we are told, like symmetry. I'm not entirely convinced of this. Some of the most beautiful faces that we as a species admire are decidedly lopsided. Babies spend significantly more time looking at symmetrical faces than non. But as we age, I suspect, we develop a slightly more twisted aesthetic. Take Botticelli's favorite model for instance. There is an exercise you are taught in photography where you print a face as a mirror image: either the right or left sides of a face is made one. It turns out, most faces have two sides to them. A happy side and a sad side. The composite of either side is called a mirror composite. In most people, the right side is the more animated and expressive and is often chosen by others as the more attractive. Botticelli's Venus had a face so asymmetrical that early critics suggested he actually used two different models.

Copyright Chris Derecola

A friend of mine has recently undertaken a photographic project. He intends to capture 100 Strangers by December 31st. He announced this on his blog and I'm kind of interested in the outcome. I'm simian and I like faces. But I'm also face blind. This is a rather rare condition that prevents one from recognizing and remembering faces. Those of us with prosopagnosia tend to seek out oddities as they are more memorable. I dislike and actually somewhat fear the suburbs as the conformity makes it almost impossible for me to tell one person from another. The strangest thing though, is that I can absolutely recognize and remember photographs of faces. I seem to process them in a different part of my brain. Because of this, as much as I like faces, I love photographs of faces.

I have been a little more attuned to the faces around me than I usually am since I read about Chris' project. Normally, I am focussed on dress, hair, gait, and build. These are the things that I can absorb and use later. But I can "see" a face, at least in it's bits and pieces. The tight eye of happiness, the rigid mouth of anger, the crooked nostrils of bemusement. In my newly-heightened state of awareness, I found myself riveted by the faces of the Ethiopians around me. This isn't the first time I have noticed just how lovely and unique their faces are, but living in DC, I have many more of them to fall in love with. We are second only to NY in the number of Ethiopian residents and we are blessed to have access to some of the best Ethiopian restaurants in the world. (Not to mention the fact that almost all of our cab drivers are Ethiopian which, as a former taxi driver myself, is enough to endear me to just about anyone).

So on Sunday, I was particularly excited when my good friend, Atlanta Hotwheels (the friend formerly known as Atlanta has indicated that he prefers the name Hotwheels and who am I to argue with that since his wheels are, in fact, hot?), suggested we go to Dukem for lunch. I had been meaning to go there forever. The same family owns my beloved Habesha Market as well as Madjet (all on the U Street Corridor). Dukem is regularly touted as "the best Ethiopian in DC." Well, it's not. Don't get me wrong. It was great. But the fact that the only Ethiopians in the joint were servers is telling. If you have never experienced this amazing cuisine, than this is probably a good place to start. But if you know your kitfo from your minchet-abesh, than you should probably go elsewhere.

For now, I'm probably going to stick with Habesha Market and their whole fried fish, meat sambusas, and veggie wots. I love watching the gorgeous women in their Sunday best and the darling children, polite and engaging. And if I'm the only white woman in there, so wot? Sometimes that's how you know you're in the right place.

Spring

The high today in DC reached 78°. It's supposed to plummet back down to the 50s this weekend. But it was a surprising reminder that winter is, like all things, finite. I actually hate the heat. I have discovered over the years that 63° is my ideal temperature. What was called "jacket weather" by my elders. The heat exacerbates my condition and leaves me feeling rather punky. 

But I do love fresh produce.

DC, by virtue of its proximity to several climatically-endowed areas, is blessed with some great outdoor markets. FRESHFARM Markets organizes several of the most important and their Chefs at Market series is already loaded with names of interest including: Brian McBride of Blue Duck Tavern, Pedro Matamoros of 8407, Kevin Villalovos of Cure Bar & Bistro, and Allison Sosna of DC Central Kitchen. (DC Central Kitchen is one of the best community responses to hunger and homelessness in the country.) Eastern Market is an institution, dating back to 1873. It has recovered from a terrible fire in 2007 and is back in full swing, although perhaps a bit tidier. There are also many other markets as well as CSAs and milk shares available. This is excellent news for a town that was a little slow to jump on the Eat Local wagon. There are many shops that carry local product, La Fromagerie in Old Town, Alexandria, VA being one of my favorites for farm eggs, fresh milk, Virginia ham, and of course, cheese!

The markets here are not quite on par with some of the truly outstanding ones in other cities across the US. Still, it's amazing how far the farm to table movement has come. And unlike most European markets, ours are filled with novelty and history from strange fruit to heirloom potatoes. I was rather well-known at the Mercato Trionfale in my Roman neighborhood of Prati. The vendors flanking the gate always shouted a cheery greeting, "E, l'Americana!" as I entered. It wasn't until my fidanzato came with me one time that I realized this was to let everyone know to lean on the scales. He was outraged. I thought the tomatoes were a bargain at any price. 


Many restaurants in the DMV have embraced this love affair with eating your backyard. One of my favorites, EatBar in VA, has partnered with a local farm and agricultural students to offer up some wickedly good food. They also offer movie nights and cartoon brunches as well stellar libations all in a really comfortable but pretty location with a ridiculously nice staff. EatBar is part of The Neighborhood Restaurant Group and shares a kitchen with Tallula. (If you ask nicely, they let you order veggies from the Tallula menu which is a little richer in that department. Vegetables not being, apparently, most people's idea of bar food.) I am checking their menus with a scary compulsion to make sure I don't miss the first real signs of spring. 

Divided

I am mostly Irish among a multitude of other heritages. I belong, therefore, to a divided people. North and South, Catholic and Protestant. Native and diaspora. Conquerors and conquered. In ancient times, we held sway over much of Europe, Asia Minor, and Africa. Where did you think the Black Irish came from? We were also slaves. In the 17th century, England sold more than 300,000 of us into slavery. Among them were: " . . . over 100,000 Irish children between the ages of 10 and 14 . . . . taken from their parents and sold as slaves in the West Indies, Virginia and New England. In this decade, 52,000 Irish (mostly women and children) were sold to Barbados and Virginia. Another 30,000 Irish men and women were also transported and sold to the highest bidder. In 1656, Cromwell ordered that 2000 Irish children be taken to Jamaica and sold as slaves to English settlers." Until the famine, which never was, we were the tallest, most long-lived, and healthiest population in Europe.

And who are we today? We are the lace curtain Irish and plastic Paddies, with our March 17th green. We are the descendants of the other saviors of Western civilization (the Arabs had a better library). We are alcoholics with a gifted tongue. We are aging revolutionaries with a guilty conscience and aging cheerleaders with no conscience whatsoever.

We are the origin for the Southern accent in the US and the reason African-American female house slaves were called Mammy. Hello Mam! Tá grá agam duit. We are behind some of the worst race wars in this country. We are a complicated people.


But mostly, we're just Irish. Exported all over. Excellent wherever we landed. Full of wit and melancholy. Wordy and worldly. And wise.

Tomorrow everyone will celebrate us. I probably won't. It's amateur hour for those of us that have actually lived it.

But if I do go out tomorrow, I will most certainly head to Duffy's.

Beware

Well, the Ides of March have come.                                       

So said Caesar. And we all know how well that worked out for him. I am hoping that Mars favors me more than he did Julius since tomorrow I am undergoing my two big tests. The first involves being strapped to a table and slowly tilted upright in which position I get to remain for up to an hour. Unless I faint. Then I get a hall pass. The second involves having a catheter inserted in my thigh up to my heart which will elucidate the electrical activity while the doctor tries to induce arrhythmia as I enjoy a "twilight sleep." This will go on anywhere from one hour to four should the team find some errant conductors they wish to destroy while they're in there.


How fun.


After these exciting events, I am to lie immobilized for up to four hours waiting for a clot to form at the insertion site. I am advised not to bring any thing of value so, no laptop. What is a mildly-sedated blogger to do? The ceilings at Washington Hospital Center had better be very interesting, I tell you.


The worst part of all of this? I have no idea when I will be eating again. 


I do hope that once I am finally allowed to move enough to eat, the food is as good as it was at Providence Hospital, the scene of my first visit to the ER last May. I had a nicely-seasoned meatloaf entrée with very fresh haricots verts and fluffy mashed potatoes with a delicious gravy.


If it's as bad as the food I received at the scene of my second ER trip at George Washington University Hospital, then I will curse the seer and her reply to Caesar:

Ay, they have come, but they are not gone.

Sex

One of my friends, Yes Ma'am, is about to start teaching sex ed to sixth graders. She is not allowed to actually discuss sex. Neither is she allowed to talk about STDs or prevention. She shared this with a group of us at dinner and because we're pathetically immature, she never got a chance to share with us  her planned curriculum. We immediately wanted to know if she would be dressing like Gwyneth Paltrow in Glee. Her husband seemed particularly curious about this and a little crushed when Yes Ma'am said no. We made bawdy with our fried plantains and traded stories about our own sex ed experiences. My Quaker grammar school was by far the most progressive it turns out, although I'm fairly certain most of my classmates already knew everything. (It was the 70s, a decade of little mystery, and Cambridge, a city of little reticence.)

Our boisterous party had gathered at La Union in Arlington, VA, my favorite Salvadoran/Mexican restaurant in the DMV which would be a better compliment were it not also the only really good Tex-Mex food in the DMV. The restaurant is owned by one of the most amiable families you could ever hope to meet. Soyla, the wife, does most of the cooking with help from her husband, David, unless she kicks him out of the kitchen. Their son, José, runs the front of house and is completely charming. He actually gave me and mi novio a ride because we couldn't get a cab during one of our "blizzards" (two inches of snow). Soyla has been a professional chef for years and her background and training come through in the exquisite dishes that keep me crossing the big waters like one of Chaucer's more decadent pilgrims. Especially sinful are the beef enchiladas, the chiles rellnos de queso (the latter are not on the menu, but they are usually available if you ask), and the pupusas revueltas with pork and cheese accompanied by a great curtido.

José and his wife are expecting their second child and at the end of our ribald repast I inquired about the newest addition. Everything was perfect, but when they went in for the latest sonogram, the smallest member of this clan crossed its legs and hid its sex.

Shakers

In 1994, I was living in Los Angeles. My old roommate's boyfriend moved into a new studio apartment in the Hollywood Hills on January 16th, and she and I agreed to be his muscle for a large quantity of pizza and beer. The place was one of those dainty efficiencies built after WWII to house the single men who flooded California looking for fun in the sun. It had one room with a Murphy bed, a kitchen, and a bathroom. Our modern West Coast bachelor was not certain about the wisdom of sleeping on something that spent most of its time in a wall, so he moved in a futon couch along with his other possessions, mostly consisting of approximately 1,500 lbs of vinyl and 800 lbs of books. We finally collapsed at about one AM on the 17th, they on the futon and I on the Murphy bed.

About three hours later, I awoke with the peculiar sensation of being on a boat.

Whaddya know?  I thought, We've had an earthquake.


I rolled over and went back to sleep only to be shaken awake this time by my old roommate who was screaming,

"Opti!!! GET UP! There was an earthquake!"

This did not please me.

"But it's over," I said.

At this point, Old Roommate and Bachelor both began yelling at me that we needed to evacuate the building immediately. Willing to do just about anything to restore them to their indoor voices, I made to get out of bed. At which point, I realized that the entire ceiling had dropped everywhere except on my head which was happily ensconced within the wall. I beat both of them to the door and may have shoved several people including small children on my way down the stairs.

We piled into Old Roommate's car and drove around gaping at the blown out windows, brick buildings with chunks missing from corners, and random gatherings of Angelinos standing in the dark looking utterly undone. We finally ended up at Old Roommate's newish apartment complex, thinking it had probably been built with better engineering than my 1940s cottage or the Bachelor's pad. We dragged two mattresses into the living room, lit every candle we could find (a terrible idea, I'm sure), and tried and failed to sleep. Sometime in the afternoon, the phone line was restored and we called our loved ones to reassure them that we had survived. It was they who informed us of just how bad it had been. It was days before we learned that 33 had died and almost 9,000 were injured.

Unsure of what to do with ourselves, we decided to take a couple of bottles of champagne down to the complex's swimming pool. The building manager was obviously stymied by our choice, but after ascertaining that our flutes were plastic, not glass, she left us to it. And there we stayed, bobbing like drunken ducks, swaying with the occasional aftershock, Bachelor in his boxers, Old Roommate in a neon blue one-piece, and me in a yoga outfit that resembled a Victorian bathing costume. The following days were a surreal taking stock of damage and injury to our favorite places and people. My Tio's house in Ventura that had marched a good foot of its foundation. The gorgeous plate glass window at my work. Cuts and bruises. We learned the term "liquefaction." We tried to volunteer, only to find that we were useless. We gave blood (which was not needed). We fell in love with Ozomatli, a band that had formed with a grant from the city to produce PSAs. Is there a greater public service announcement than a great song?

My brother had been in the 1989 Loma Prieta earthquake which was horrifying. Although, his first reaction to that one was as flip as mine was to Northridge: he was grilling hot dogs in anticipation of the third game of the Bay Bridge World Series. As they began to roll around, he concluded that the weed he was smoking was fairly righteous. The devastation that the Bay Area experienced harshed his mellow pretty quickly, though. 63 people died, almost 4,000 were injured, and as many as 10,000 were left homeless. Sobering indeed.

Japan's recent quake must have some humorous anecdotes, but it is hard to imagine what they might be given the vastness of the tragedy. The latest reports tell of 1,700 dead, countless injured, and hundreds of thousands homeless. The explosion at the Fukushima nuclear plant led to the evacuation of 210,000 people. Tsunami warnings were issued for almost every country with a coastline along the Pacific.


A dear friend, La Peruana, and I had planned to go out last night, and she did not back out despite staying up all night worrying for the safety of her friends and family in Lima. We went to Zengo, Richard Sandoval's whimsical Latin-Asian fusion restaurant in DC's Chinatown. The mix of cuisines from the counties most affected by the earthquake was oddly comforting. It seemed like a lovely way to celebrate the peoples of the Pacific rim and keep them in our hearts and thoughts while we enjoyed a night out. 


We made it in time for HH, a raucous affair at the downstairs bar, and enjoyed insanely good caipirinhas as well as two small plates. We also got to meet the charming manager, Allison, who somehow managed to manage everything with a great deal of poise and sly wit. We finished our tuna wonton tacos and papaya salad which were exceptionally tasty and ordered another round of those devil caipirinhas as well as the pork arepas and the vegetarian roll. 

photo by DavidAll06 

I then fainted. Yes, right at the bar. Allison cleared a space for me on one of the opulent banquettes and I raised my knees and lowered my head until the ambulance rolled up. La Peruana and I enjoyed some very funny chit chat with my EMTs, John and Nick, while we waited for my BP to ascend from 80 to 114. I signed a waiver indicating that if I died, it was no fault of theirs and we departed for Adams Morgan. Feeling better, I demanded that we stop at Millie and Al's for a pizza, Jameson, and good cheer. Despite a dizzy spell, it was a wise decision. It is, by far, my favorite bar in DC with one of the best staff you could hope to find anywhere. And they didn't blink when I employed the salt shaker directly on my tongue. Bless them.

Mimosas

A better blogger than I would have something intriguing to say about International Women's Day. She would point out that women in the US still earn less than men. Or ponder the impact of gender-based abortions on the marriage rates in China. She might note that the feminization of poverty. Or maybe wax ecstatic about the 100th anniversary, woot woot! Not this blogger. I'm old. And I'm tired. I'm especially tired of the same old state of womanhood. Cherchez la femme et plus ça change...

Instead, I think I will remember my first Women's Day in Rome. The custom in much of Europe is to bury women in armfuls of mimosa blossoms. It's absolutely charming. They smell divine, are gaudy to the point of irrational exuberance, and are ridiculously affordable. There are also a whole host of foods inspired by the bloom, all yellow, all festive. Best of all though, is The Mimosa. Who could possibly say no to champagne, orange juice, and perhaps a splash of Grand Marnier? Unless it's evening and one of your girlfriends just landed a new job which demands celebrating. Then you might want to skip the brunch drink and lift something a little more sophisticated.

Such was the case this Women's Day. The new hire and the blogger opted for Happy Hour at Napoleon Bistro in Adams Morgan in NW DC. The gorgeous interior, with its rouge et noir et or, is the perfect foil for a girls night out. The half price bar menu is a wonderful introduction to Chef Faniyi's creations. But best of all are the myriad champagne cocktails, also half price. The new hire chose the  jewel-toned Kir Royale and I went with the Green Fairy.

Happy International Women's Day!

Solidarność

The year after I graduated from high school, my best friend Rae and I packed one small bag each (our hair took up more cubic inches than our luggage) and undertook a Grand Tour. Our adventuring included Britain and Ireland, France, the Netherlands, Belgium, Switzerland, a brief train trip through some small part of Germany, and a taste of Italy. By the time we finished Florence, we were Europed out. We had a brief but productive conversation that went something like this:


"I'm ready to go home now."
"Me too."


We promptly bailed on the rest of Italy and Greece. Callow youth that we were, we had no regrets. We had stories. Enough stories that we felt our time had been well spent and that we really had no great need for any more. What we really needed were some different clothes and American TV.

Our stories began in London. London was remarkable in many ways, chief among them being that we never felt so alien anywhere else. The sexism, classism, and racism was so vile and so open, we found ourselves keeping company almost exclusively with émigrés. Most precious of whom were two Polish brothers, Maciej and Michał. We called them Magic and Misha. Magic was a musician living in London whose odd hours left him free to squire us around during the afternoons and evenings. Misha was spending the summer studying something we were rather vague about except that it was international. He stayed up with us drinking cheap wine and describing life under the Soviets. The brothers' father was a prominent lawyer. He had represented Karol Wojtyła, the Archbishop of Krakow before his promotion, and was the attorney for a trade union that had started up in the shipyards of Gdansk. Neither avocation endeared him much to the regime. Both brothers fed us a steady diet of music each felt was crucial to our becoming full Citizens of the World. (Continental, in other words.) For Magic this meant a healthy dose of the Ink Spots and Linton Kwesi Johnson, for Misha this meant a heady dose of Cocteau Twins and the Polish dissident band Republika. 

The rest of our journey was wonderful and the bulk of our best stories actually took place after we left London. We woke up in Galway unable to ascertain until we left our B&B whether it was 6 PM the day we'd lain down for a nap, or 6 AM the day after. We may have destroyed a marriage by pointing out that it was beyond ridiculous for our hostess' husband and grown son to contribute nothing to the housework when she worked full time outside the home. We stayed in a seedy hôtel in the Latin Quarter which I made seem positively gruesome after I cut my ankle shaving and bled all over the bathroom. We then spent the entire night of Bastille Day blinking at Rae's cousin as he warned me of the dangers of Paris' evil humors which were certain to enter through my wound and poison me. We asked the same couple three times, in three different languages, on three different trains if there were two open seats in their compartment to which they replied:


"We don't speak French." "We don't speak German." and "We don't speak Italian."


We shared a compartment with a beautiful Yugoslavian boy with whom we could share no conversation despite our having nine languages among the three of us. Until, that is, he said "Bip?" and pulled out a six-pack of beer which we discovered to be a truly universal idiom. This facilitated an exchange in sign language whereby we established that both Tito and JFK were dead. We saw masterpieces and witnessed mysteries. We were never quite the same.


But it was Magic and Misha who left the deepest impression. I cannot begin to imagine who I would be today had I not met these sons of the lawyer to the future Pope John Paul II and to Solidarność. I have been thinking of them a great deal lately. A peaceful revolution in Egypt, the anti-union lies about Wisconsin, a conversation with a Saudi friend about reconciliation, have all pushed my fond gratitude to the surface of my psyche. Luckily, we have reconnected and I can finally tell them how much they mean to me. 


I have a play date coming up to meet a friend at the luxe-louche Russia House in Dupont. They have an excellent Happy Hour with discounted drinks and small plates that they do not advertise that is one of the best in DC. Most importantly, however, they carry my favorite vodka, Ultimat. It's a Polish wheat, rye, and potato blend that is as strong, warm, and lovely as Magic and Misha. I will lift a toast to them and to anyone struggling for dignity and justice anywhere in this world. Za tych co nie mogą!

Ahem. Is This Thing On?

I set Say What? up four long years ago and promptly ignored it. I'm sure I had something to say. I wonder what it was. No matter. Having abandoned another blog whose relevance was no longer relevant, I find my opinions have not abandoned me. So here I am again. Fingers poised, brow arched, ready to opine...

The topic at hand? The subject so pressing I simply could not wait four more years? The synaptic storm on which I must comment?


I kid you not.

In my usual, unusual fashion, I have managed to acquire a condition. Said condition involves episodes of syncope accompanied by hypotension. In other words, I have taken to fainting. I have spells. I am become a Victorian heroine in my own pathetic little melodrama. All of this would play better were I closer to the ground. And perhaps a few pounds lighter. As it is, I do not so much collapse gracefully into a swirl of skirts and ruffles as I do crash awkwardly onto the various sticking out bits of my person.

It is decidedly inelegant.

Along with my condition, I have acquired a cardiologist. Along with my cardiologist, I have acquired a violent (purely platonic) love that knows no bounds. My heart belongs to my heart doctor. And how did this happen? Five words. Five short sweet words.

"Eat a lot of salt."

This paragon of Hippocratic virtue (he even treated Satan) had other things to say, but it was this savory sentence that put the swell in my swoon. The rhyme in my arrhythmia. The up in my beat. The syncopated in my syncope.  Here were orders I could follow!

How can I describe my sodium-devotion? Perhaps my early reaction to this classic death scene might illustrate the point...

...while other children wept over the tragic death of Bambi's mother, I was of the opinion that getting shot at a salt lick was probably a pretty decent way to go.

I have been given license to pursue my very own salt lick. Day one was an NaCl orgy. In high Victorian heroine form, I took to my bed. I also took my salt to my bed. And salted all the meals I ate in bed. My beloved canister of Diamond Crystal® Kosher Salt served double duty and traveled with me from kitchen to bedroom as I doubled down on my new favorite medicine. Day two presented my first challenge. I ate out.

I was treated to a very nice dinner by my beau at Beau Thai. It's a relatively new "sister" restaurant to the devastatingly great Thai X-ing just a few blocks over in the Shaw neighborhood of DC. (Beau Thai's GM is Aschara Vigsittaboot, sister of Thai X-ing's chef/owner Taw Vigsittaboot.) The contrast between the two is night and day. Beau Thai is bright, clean, and decidedly safe, while Thai X-ing is dark, steamy, and thrilling. Having done my homework, I was prepared for the Americanized menu and was pleased with my fried squid and beef green curry. It was somewhat amusing that the chili pepper I popped whole into my mouth thinking it was a green bean had only slightly more heat than a green bean, but it was a tasty meal and well-enjoyed. The problem? Little salt in the food and none on the table. The waiter brought a small dish of my crystalline Rx when asked and after drawing the attention of a fellow diner due to my liberal use of the stuff, I began to remember why I hate table salt.


It doesn't actually taste like salt.


Your lover's lips in the summer taste like salt. 
Oysters taste like salt.
A horse's neck tastes like salt. 
Teardrops taste like salt.
The soles of Gandhi's feet tasted like salt. 

I suppose I will have to find some means of hauling around my own salt. Perhaps an antique snuff box?