Now that I have lived through it, I shall bestow upon you all my tale of woe. It goes a little something like this.
Late Tuesday night (of last week), I developed a sore throat. Not just any sore throat, but the Mother Of All Sore Throats.
I had it Wednesday.
Every time I swallowed, I thought I could very well be the first person ever to die of a sore throat. I know you are thinking: what are the odds? But I tell you the odds were excellent. Absurdly excellent.
Sunday had good hours and wretched ones.
Today I'm fine. I have what feels like a normal sore throat, and it's wonderful. I could kiss normal sore throats.
My girls at the Limery offered me tons of home remedies, most of which I had already attempted. I even scoured the internet for medical advice posted by complete strangers who could very well have been the sore-throat-home-remedy equivalent of the Unabomber. But residing in that particular arena of pain, caution was a luxury I could not afford.
So. I tried: lemon and honey tea, lemon and honey cough drops, throat spray (this one mostly just numbed my tongue, which under normal circumstances would have greatly amused me), Tylenol, gargling hot pepper water, gargling apple cider vinegar (acv=el disgusto), hot compresses, zicam, vitamin C, and possibly other stuff that I already forget.
One of them worked.
Oh yes, and um, also I tried other people's prescription pain medication. That might have been the one that worked.
Nevertheless. I am alive. I can swallow with the best of 'em. Let the fanfare commence.
Michael Pollan’s “Cooked”
14 hours ago