Sunday, August 16, 2009

Confessions of a Saltaholic

For much of my life, it would of have been chips and dip, my last meal if given the option. My family tells stories. The toddler with the round belly in footed pajamas camped out in front of the chip and dip bowl on coffee table. Why a two-year-old would develop an affinity for sour cream, I can’t tell you. Maybe the formula I was fed had expired.

As a fourth grader I begged to be given the privilege of carrying the chip and dip bowl into the living room. The two tiered frosted glass set, which we probably purchased with S&H Greenstamps, was etched with grape leaves and gold trim. I didn’t get too far before I fell. I cried in front of the company I was serving. Not so much for the destruction of the family’s iconic serving set, but for the waste of all that onion soup mix, Breakstone sour cream, and Ruffles.

It’s not sweets that tempt me. It’s Triscuits, saltines, and pretzels. I learned to do things to Pepperidge Farm Goldfish crackers at a bar on Bourbon Street in New Orleans to take it up another notch. Sprinkle Cajun seasoning on a bowl of the smiling fish before serving. In Ocean City, Maryland, I found Old Bay and Wye River seasonings would give me the same fix. Yes, I was salting salted cracker.

I had never counted sodium before. Then my doctor diagnosed me some kind of inner ear condition that caused vertigo. As a result, I needed to reduce my fluid retention by cutting my sodium intake.

Shattered and empty, I sat at the kitchen table, my chin in my chest. “Please pass the salt,” I asked politely.

“No,” my daughter said. “Your doctor says you can’t have any.”

My food was bland. It was like attending a symphony with no sound. Where was the volume? I bought unsalted pretzels and saltines. Unsuspecting family members who dipped their hands into the boxes spit the snacks into the sink. “Uggh. What is this?” my daughter asked.

“A snack only a meal moth would enjoy,” I said.

Sodium was everywhere. It was in my diet soda, my frozen food lunch, my zero point canned soup, and microwave popcorn packet. I pouted. “I gave up fried food, dairy products, caffeine, and red meat. There’s nothing left. Just put me on an IV drip.”

“Want a slice of watermelon?” my daughter asked as she served herself a piece.

“My Uncle Ronald used to put salt on that you know. My grandfather would salt his beer too,” I replied.

“And they made dandelion wine in the same stainless steel tub they all bathed out of in middle the kitchen, Ma. It was the Great Depression. Get over it,” she said.

“I’m trying to,” I said. “I really am. But if this was my last meal, I’d go to the grave dizzy.”

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