I’m home sick. The past week has felt like someone set my lungs on fire and then strapped an overweight, dead raccoon to my chest. That delightful symptom has waned, only to be replaced with stuffiness and feeling like I have mono again.
Wah. Thank you for Friends on Netflix and Queer Eye for the Straight Guy episodes on YouTube, and to my sister for pointing this out to me.
I tend to go old school with my sickness regimen. A classic tip I learned from my cousin’s grandmother – a wonderful woman who, until she died in her 90s, was still making turkey dinner and pies every Sunday for the family. She always touted the magic of slathering up the chest and neck in a rub (Analgesic Balm, which they don’t sell anymore, so Vick’s has to do), wrapping a wool sock around the neck and dressing for a blizzard before laying under the sheets.
It’s the weirdest, most feverish sleep of your life. It works. (And, is a remarkable contraceptive. If the sniffling wasn’t that already.)
The other thing I subscribe to is spicy foods. Like curry.
I’m fairly certain one of my spirit animals, when it’s not a tail-gating Midwestern middle-aged Bears fan, was a housewife in the 1920s, using up leftovers and this and that to make supper. (A skill that perplexes Ben to no end.) This curry was the result of this, finding a recipe that more or less matched what was in my fridge.
What I can smell is good, but I can’t even taste the habanero I threw in. So you’ll have to try this blindly.
I’m going back to TV and brandy (yet, another staple remedy). Just until it’s time for this:
Not Carrot Cake 