A fiery brew
Apr. 24th, 2007 12:26 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
pallas_athenaIn honour of International Pixel-Stained TechnoPeasant Day, on which the mandate is "Give away professional quality work online," I would like to share my favourite DIY cold remedy.
As a rule, singers are horrified by colds. If you have a cold and meet a singer, it's polite to announce "I have a cold" before you hug, kiss or shake hands with them. The singer will then proceed to treat you like a leper for the duration of your time together. This is completely normal. They don't hate you, just your cargo of bacteria and viruses.
On the other hand, if you become ill while at the house of a singer, you will receive excellent care. Singers have a medicine cabinet full of vitamin C, throat lozenges, decongestants, cough syrup and aspirin. They have weird herbal tea that tastes vile. They have all the alternative-homeopathic-organic hippie shit known to mankind. They worship the Great God Ricola. If you hold still for long enough, they'll have a saucepan of water simmering on the stove and be holding your towel-draped head in a deathgrip above it. If you know singers, you'll know that it's generally best to offer no resistance and let them do their thing. Besides, steam is good for your pores.
So here's the recipe:
Ingredients: ginger root, lemons, honey, water
Peel and chop up some ginger root. (Tonight I used about 2 tablespoons' worth.)
Put the chopped bits in about a pint of water in a saucepan.
Cover and boil for a while. (The longer you boil it, the stronger it gets).
Pour into a mug with a squeeze of lemon juice and a spoonful or two of honey. (You can, at this stage, add some whisky, brandy, bourbon or whatever else you've got in the house.)
Stir and drink slowly.
I've had several mugs of this tonight, and I feel a bit better. Hurrah.
As a rule, singers are horrified by colds. If you have a cold and meet a singer, it's polite to announce "I have a cold" before you hug, kiss or shake hands with them. The singer will then proceed to treat you like a leper for the duration of your time together. This is completely normal. They don't hate you, just your cargo of bacteria and viruses.
On the other hand, if you become ill while at the house of a singer, you will receive excellent care. Singers have a medicine cabinet full of vitamin C, throat lozenges, decongestants, cough syrup and aspirin. They have weird herbal tea that tastes vile. They have all the alternative-homeopathic-organic hippie shit known to mankind. They worship the Great God Ricola. If you hold still for long enough, they'll have a saucepan of water simmering on the stove and be holding your towel-draped head in a deathgrip above it. If you know singers, you'll know that it's generally best to offer no resistance and let them do their thing. Besides, steam is good for your pores.
So here's the recipe:
Ingredients: ginger root, lemons, honey, water
Peel and chop up some ginger root. (Tonight I used about 2 tablespoons' worth.)
Put the chopped bits in about a pint of water in a saucepan.
Cover and boil for a while. (The longer you boil it, the stronger it gets).
Pour into a mug with a squeeze of lemon juice and a spoonful or two of honey. (You can, at this stage, add some whisky, brandy, bourbon or whatever else you've got in the house.)
Stir and drink slowly.
I've had several mugs of this tonight, and I feel a bit better. Hurrah.
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
If this isn't a gift to the world,
on 2007-04-24 01:31 am (UTC)Re: If this isn't a gift to the world,
on 2007-04-24 03:01 pm (UTC)..sorry, explosion of cute there. I'll stop now.
no subject
on 2007-04-24 01:51 am (UTC)My sister is just like that too :-)
And speaking of writing. Remember this?
on 2007-04-24 02:19 am (UTC)Signore Spatulini made a deep bow to the Diva and a grand show of gallantry as he walked rod straight towards the entryway to face the creature in the Diva’s stead.
He returned in mere moments, a barely disguised look of mirth on his face as he stood next to the “creature.”
Buuuurrrrppppp.
The Signore looked askance at the Haggis, who had the good graces to mutter, “Sorry, I shouldn’t have had that tuna sandwich for lunch.”
The Haggis then pulled itself up to its full height and stated loudly, “Haggis-gram for . . . ,” it consulted the piece of paper in its heretofore unseen hand, “ SIG-nah-rinny PEC-kyle penny-anti von Steinlager.” Its other heretofore unseen hand extracted a pitch pipe from a heretofore unseen pocket, passed it though a head-high slit in the costume and produced a credible middle C, which it then proceeded miss by kilometers in singing a rounding rendition of Happy Birthday to the Diva.
It was too much—first the excoriation of her name—and then the idea that someone with such a tin ear would actually be paid to sing. The Signorina swooned once more onto the pliant couch.
“Nicolina,” Spatulini cried, “does this mean you do not like your present?”
Meanwhile Dogleash approached the Haggis, and with a bemused look in her eye she addressed its occupant, “Weren’t you the cab driver who drove me hear earlier?”
“Yes ma’am, I wuz,” the cabby/singing Haggis-gram replied. “But cab driving don’t quite pay my pub bill, so I moonlight as it were.”
“But how did you get here,” Dogleash queried. “I thought the road had flooded”
“Oh it had. But I came by motorbike across the dam at the end of Loch Dupp.”
At the mental picture of the Haggis riding a motorbike across the moors, Dogleash broke out in a fit of hysterical laughter.
Re: And speaking of writing. Remember this?
on 2007-04-24 03:06 pm (UTC)I keep remembering snatches of the story, beautiful phrases one or other of us came up with. I'm so glad it lives on somewhere.
bounce bounce yaaaaaay bounce bounce
no subject
on 2007-04-24 04:49 am (UTC)That's cute. Naive, but cute.
no subject
on 2007-04-24 07:47 am (UTC)I'm so relieved you are feeling better! Hurray!
no subject
on 2007-04-24 03:02 pm (UTC)no subject
on 2007-04-24 09:06 am (UTC)