It turned out I could have an underactive thyroid, or I could be dehydrated, or I could even have cancer. Oh well, I thought, another diagnosis to keep to myself unless I wish to have ridicule heaped upon me. I accepted my fate philosophically – but a little regretfully. I do love pumpkin pie.
Yesterday I made bread – as usual – and as I poured out sugar, it looked a bit clumpy, and not in a sugar-lumpy way. I tasted a bit It was a lightbulb moment: suddenly the mystery was solved. What’s more, I had a fair idea of who was responsible.
“Marcel,” I said, “you put salt in the sugar bag.”
I had emptied a pot of salt into a little bowl so that I could wash the salt cellar, and I didn’t think to question its absence, as Marcel is always chucking things out. This time, however, instead of chucking out about 6c worth of salt, he put it into a bag of caster sugar, thinking that’s what it was…
So I’m healthy as a trout, as it turns out…as usual. Hurray!
(As for not making a pig of myself because the pies and cakes were too salty to be edible, it didn’t stop the rest of my family from gobbling it all in a flurry of crumbs and whipped cream. Just saying.)
After I made the sketch I showed it to Marcel. “What do you think of my pumpkins?” I asked.
“They look like breasts,” said Marcel.
I am either highly insulted, very worried or utterly baffled. Or all three.