And a salt shaker for every room...
Amongst the cluttershitspillover, a gem or two is inevitably found. One thing we have an abundance of in the House of Ego are salt shakers of various shapes and sizes from both distant and local lands. One is a keepsake from a Key West gift shop, vibrant crimson with Birds of Paradise painted around the circumference. One is a miniature Coronita beer bottle turned salt shaker stolen from a Mexican cuisine restaurant somewhere far north where Mexican Cuisine is mistaken for something with loads of cheese mounded on the top (some say it's better that way). One is an antique shaker fashioned as a tiny Coca Cola bottle, with thick, clear glass and a stainless steel top.
Apparently, salt is a matter of life and death and each room must contain at least one shaker filled with the crystalized substance in the event of an emergency. If a salt shaker is out of arms reach, you are not in my house.
As it turns out, a little over fifteen years ago, I married a salt fiend. A gift shop can not be visited without falling in love with the exquisite craftsmanship of a hand painted salt dispenser. A restaurant can never feel that their inventory is safe, if it dispenses salt. And no meal is complete if the requisite amount of salt is not applied. When the requisite amount of salt is applied...add more.
To be fair, I enjoy a pinch or two of salt now and again and certain flavors are meant to be enhanced by doing so. Popcorn, for instance. French fries. Cucumbers. Tomatoes. Anything that has a label indicating that it's contents have "reduced sodium." And of course, watermelon.
That being said, I'm more of a pepper person, myself. I only have one dispenser for that, however.
Waking last night to the fridge closing and subtle rummaging, I heard the unmistakable sound of a salt deployment. It is far more an abrasive noise than a pepper deployment, although it is a nuanced difference. Years of close encounters with countless salt dispensings are needed to adequately prepare you for recognizing the specific sound from several rooms away. Following the episode, the midnight snacker used the bathroom, evidenced by the swooshing of a toilet's flush and then the faucet's rush. And then silence.
I didn't think much of it at the time and made a mental note to question the children at breakfast and then I went back to sleep.
Morning came and went in a blink, the kids were whisked off to school and guess who neglected to interrogate them about their midnight escapades (varying greatly from Family Dog's "escapades" of course)?
The peculiar conclusion is that when everyone went to bed last night, all of the various salt dispensers were in their strategically designated zones. This morning, however, they were all in one location, on the kitchen counter, where it is obvious someone had made a sandwich, apparently with generous amounts of salt.
I'm not sure I want to know which one of my kids is responsible...I think I'll just let this one go. Nothing wrong with a midnight snack now and again.
Today's Jazz Hands are unpacking emotional attachments.
Day two-hundred and thirty-five complete.
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