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?