This past Saturday, my husband and I went into the liquor store to pick up a few things for our annual St. Patrick's Day party. Coming from an Irish family, it was sort of like strolling through the local CVS. Diarhhea? Take a shot of blackberry brandy. Constipation? Guiness. No herbal supplements for us.....we go right for the 20 proof.
Unfortunately, my husband learned this the hard way.....
During the first year we were married, we went back home for a weekend visit. Poor Tim got the flu and spent the entire first day shivering, sweating and pretty much wishing he was dead. By Saturday night, he was so bad that my mother and I decided to help him out. We made him a hot toddy.
I sent him up to bed and we gathered around the cauldron...I mean kettle. Steaming hot, thick as mud tea (another Irish cure-all), a few tablespoons of honey ( sugar is for amatures), a big slice of lemon (okay, so this is more English..sorry Grandma) and a shot of whiskey. Here is where his hangover started.
We raided the liquor cabinet and found a bottle of Crown Royal...unopened. Flu? Whiskey! (Unlike CVS, we do not distinguish between brands...it's the thought that counts). And so we poured in a dose of the healing elixer...by eye. (Shotglass? we don't need no stinkin' shotglass.)
Up the stairs I went and administered the medicine to the patient, assuring him that he would sleep like a baby,sweat out the bug and be healed by morning. Quick and painless I assured him. Works every time.
I watched as he dutifully consumed the entire contents, encouraging him to drink up quickly. I waited with him for the miracle cure to begin its magic. Nothing happened. No sleeping, no sweating. Hmmmm. Maybe the dose was incorrect. Perhaps I hadn't correctly calculated his BMI. After consulting with my mother, we decided a second dose was in order.
Tea, lemon, honey and a wee bit of Crown Royal. Well, maybe a bit more with just an extra splash for good luck. Back up to the patient and...down the hatch. Success! Within minutes, he had drifted off into a peaceful, healing slumber. (Okay, so passed out, drooling. Same thing)
That night, I smugly drifted off to sleep thinking how grateful he would be in the morning. I pictured him bouncing out of bed, completely cured and taking me shopping as a thank you, patiently waiting while I tried on multiple outfits and assuring me my butt did not look big in any of them. I would magnanimously agree to go along, just to be gracious. Yeah right. Not even close.
Somewhere around tenish, he crawled out from under yellowed, sweat-stained sheets and groped his way to the bathroom. After shaving his tongue and draining the water heater of every last drop,he stumbled downstairs and begged for some asprin for his aching head.
Alarmed by the pallor of his skin and the dark circles under his eyes, I offered him another home remedy, perplexed as to why my first two attempts hadn't worked. This must be some weird new strain of flu if it didn't respond to the tried and true "medicine" I had already dispensed. Probably one of those labratory created bugs designed for military use only.
As I turned to peruse the family medicine chest, aka the liquor cabinet, he reached past me and grabbed the Crown Royal, demanding to know just how much" medicine" he had been given. In retrospect, I probably should have not admitted that the now half empty bottle had started out full the night before, at least not until he'd had an entire bottle of asprin and a nice, greasy hamburger.
Hey, I told him I would get rid of his flu, which I did. And I'm pretty sure we had a home remedy for the hangover too. I still can't understand why he didn't want to give it a try.
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