Oregano Grumpypants

I was wearing my grumpy pants all day yesterday due to exhaustion and general physical malaise, so I decided this morning I would take these wacky herbal supplements my Mom gave me on Monday.

Note: I stand opposed to the rampant overuse of non-prescription drugs in our society; I’m more of the “what doesn’t kill you ony makes you stronger” philosophy of fighting through sickness, unless you *must* be functioning for work. But naturopathic medicine or massage therapy? Bring it on.

Anyway, these capsules are called ‘Oregacyn’, and are chock full of wild oregano. Supposedly, they help fight or suppress viruses or something.

I don’t know how or if they really achieve anything, but by medieval standards of health care it should scare the demons out of my system through its smell alone. You open that bottle and KABOOM! a genie of green mist floats out and socks you in the olfactory senses. Some serious aroma is happening in there.

Even after you’ve popped one down your gullet, the smell resurfaces in the form of small, oregano-scented burps: sounds nasty, I know, but they’re quite refreshing. I imagine it’s a lot like the smell of running through a field in rural Italy in the middle of high summer. Except that instead of wafting upwards from tiny green leaves crushed under my feet, it’s exploding outwards from my mouth. Wait, that really *is* nasty.

Anyway, more reports later on how the herbal help is going. My optimistic self is staying hopeful that the oregano will banish the evil juju. My more practical side wants me to keep in mind the fact that these pills were given to me by the same woman who fervently believes in the healing power of bee pollen. And that oregano, no matter what sort of fancy ‘proprietary P73 blend’ you make with it, is still just a seasoning for pasta sauce.

Continuing in the spirit of Alastair and I exchanging emails this morning with ‘famous last words’ conclusions (on the occasion of his rotten, miserable, feverish bout of influenza):

“I should never have switched from Scotch to Martinis.”

~~ Humphrey Bogart, actor, d. January 14, 1957

Rain, Goethe, and Avalon

The rain last night was amazing – sheets and sheets of it, washing the Spadina streetcar and all its incoming and outgoing human cargo clean. Thunder clapping over the dinging bell and lightning painting the silver rails and black cables with white.

I stayed in watching the wind move the water around the pavement like a stir stick in a martini pitcher until about eight o’clock. Alastair wanted me to meet him after German class for a bite to eat; I threw on my old beaver coat, grabbed my parasol, laced up my leopard-print clown shoes and braved the storm.

Due to the inclement weather, we didn’t want to go far for food. Scurrying wetly along King Street, we turned north on John towards the orange glare of Hooters, and stopped at Avalon for dinner. A tad extravagant for an ordinary Wednesday? Perhaps. But A. and I have a strict policy of eating fancy whenever the mood strikes. Particularly if there’s no occasion to celebrate. The meal itself should be celebration enough, and ought not to be detracted from with inane chatter about birthdays or anniversaries.

I was thwarted in my efforts to order a glass of fine Tokay (my desire inspired by Philip Pullman’s ‘His Dark Materials’ novels). Happily, our waiter, sensing my thrifty Scots heritage, offered me a “discounted” flute of champagne in recompense. How could I refuse? I got seven Malpesque oysters to go with it (six for me + one for my companion), and followed it with a duck main and chocolate tart filled with butterscotch mousse for dessert.

The sheer absurdity of lobster pierogies proved irresistible. Ukrainian grandmothers everywhere are suffering indignant rage without being entirely sure why: sweet cultural misappropriation, how I adore thee. A. had rabbit as his main, exclaiming, “Damn! Thumper tastes goooood!” To finish, he tried the coconut tapioca with pineapple and fruit sorbet. And then some loose-leaf earl grey and fresh figs to close.

Deeelish.