When we last left our hero, she was worried she might have a popcorn hull stuck in her throat.
I left my son’s Saturday soccer game to take a quick trip to the doctor – just to see if she could see any popcorn action down my throat. (She couldn’t.) She had complete faith that whatever I was feeling would eventually wend it’s way down and out of me. But because Dr. K had obviously warned her that I was wound a little tight, she gave me a scrip for an x-ray that I could have done on Monday in case my symptoms hadn’t subsided.
I went home and started boiling water. I drank hot water with lime all afternoon and I ate more bagels and more honey. One of the suggestions I’d come across over and over again online was to eat more popcorn. Popcorn, it seems, is the most effective remediation for “popcorn stuck in throat.” Part of me suspected this was someone’s idea of a joke, so I didn’t try it. Also, by then I had lost my taste for popcorn entirely. And I found the bagels and honey maddeningly delicious.
If you are wondering whether the honey I was eating came from the half-full jar that mysteriously appeared in my living room, the answer is yes. I’d found the honey on a Tuesday – the day that our cleaning woman comes – and since she is usually the source of many things lost and most things broken, I convinced myself that she was also the source of the mystery honey. I convinced myself that it was not Enemy Honey or even Abandoned Honey. Simply Forgotten Honey.
It was two weeks before my cleaning woman returned and when she did, I showed her the honey jar and asked if it was hers. It wasn’t.
So the source of the Mystery Honey remains a mystery. I can attest only to the fact that it’s not Poisoned Honey.
As for the popcorn hull, no x-ray necessary. By Monday, I no longer felt anything in my throat and in order to remain that way, I swore off popcorn altogether, a boycott that lasted from Friday until yesterday (Wednesday) at 4 pm, when I sat down with a huge bowl of perfectly popped, delectably salted Paul Newman’s Organic stovetop popped corn and took a conscientious moment halfway through the heap of it to ask the Popcorn Hull Gods to please spare my throat this go round, because, boy, did I need a fix.