A Tall Glass of Foul Putridity

I looked in my Webster's New World to see if putridity is really a word, and was disappointed to find that it is.  I hoped to coin a new term...

I, along with many dear friends, just recovered from influenza.  This virus wiggled its evil way past our flu shots and knocked us all out for two miserable weeks, then blanketed the experience with an exhausting, three-week cough.  I've said several prayers of thanks that my husband and boys were spared.

"You need electrolytes," said my doctor, after I told her I was sweating buckets.  So I stumbled into the store for some electrolyte beverage.  The store had myriad flavors of electrolyte beverage.  Blueberry Pomegranate, I thought.  Those are both good flavors.  I'll buy that.

Bad idea.

Blue Mountain Sharpshooter, who had appointed himself my nursemaid, poured me a glass and stuck the straw into my mouth as I lay in bed.  I couldn't remember when I'd tasted something that awful.  Undeterred, Sharpshooter spent the next hour poking the straw at me, until the stuff was gone.

Later, dozing and sweating, a memory returned: a horrible beverage memory.  I had tasted a drink that bad, years and years ago.  When I was a teenager, a business colleague of my dad's gave him a bottle of cognac as a Christmas gift.  It was a dark, frosted bottle with "Remy Martin" and "VSOP" written on it.  Knowing only that cognac was some type of strong drink, my mom opened it and took a sniff.  She poured a tiny bit and sipped it, then let me try, and my sister.

Immediately, my sister and I collapsed in paroxysms of disgust, making retching noises and requesting water to rinse the taste away.  "Rotten," we pronounced.  "Totally rotten."  (This was the 1980's, and everything was totally something.)  My mom tried to cook with it; the results weren't good, and she poured the rest out.  Later she learned that the bottle probably cost $50.

So I lay there, reminiscing about that nasty cognac for a few days, since I had little else to think about.  When I felt better, I researched cognac (pronounced CONE-yak) and found that it's a type of brandy made from grapes grown in a certain part of France.  The grapes are fermented, then distilled twice and aged in barrels for years.  Now, I try to keep an unprejudiced palate, but my teenage memory of the resulting beverage is intensely unpleasant.  The drink bears no resemblance to the original grape, or to any grape for that matter.  Well, the grapes of wrath, maybe.

Gradually, thank the Lord, my health improved, and last weekend I was able to socialize.  Of course, half the visiting involved commiserating with friends about how sick we all were.  ("I thought I was going to DIE!)

"It is very good to see you again," said my friend, Khaz.  Khaz - not his real name - is very health-conscious and keeps a vast mental library of home remedies.  I thanked him, and mentioned that I was still experiencing profound weakness and lack of energy.

"I'm just so tired, I said.  "I'm drinking coffee to keep going."

Khaz grabbed my arm and held his face close to mine, the way he does when giving advice:  "The coffee is good," he said, "But this is what you need to do.  I am serious."  He paused.

"What do I do?"

"Put cognac in it."