Pink Himalayan Salt
I forgot to tell you about the pink Himalayan salt thing didn’t I? I know. I also forgot to tell you what happened to Alice and who I have been holding hands with in the woods, but give a girl a chance won’t you? I will get around to both things very, very soon (though rest assured that Alice is happy and the man whose hand I have been holding is all kinds of wonderful).
So yes: pink Himalayan salt. You see the day before my birthday I went to Kath’s house and for a reason I cannot quite remember now I took a plate, a loaf of walnut bread, and some blue cheese and had myself a solitary lunch at her kitchen table. That is obviously weird in itself because she was there watching me eat, and a person very rarely invites herself around to eat her own little picnic lunch in someone else’s house, but the only explanation I can offer is that my Mum had just died and I was all kinds of crazy.
There I was nibbling like a hungry squirrel and probably mainlining Kath’s delicious tea, when she remembered that she had a little something for me and with a ta-da she brought out a little bottle of pink Himalayan salt and presented it to a rather giddy little me. And we both agreed that something both pink and salty was a wonderful little Thursday afternoon gift for me, and then I packed my plate, and my bread and my cheese and my salt in to my cherry red bag, strung it across my body, thanked my friend most profusely for both her hospitality and her impromptu kindness and then headed over to my Dad’s where he and Helen were having a drink after spending an afternoon in Liverpool.
Now let it be known at this point that I am often the cause of both bewilderment and hilarity among family members and further let it be known that I usually dismiss the befuddled looks they give each other when I say or do something ridiculous because I AM ridiculous and that my friends is that.
But anyway there we were, in Dads kitchen, when my phone rang and I went burrowing in my vibrating bag to fetch it and failed to notice their stares of astonishment when I brought out plate, bread and cheese as the phone stopped ringing and the questions started. Why was I walking about with stinking blue cheese in my bag? Why did I carry my own plate around? What else did I have in there? And I laughed and said oh only a little jar of pink Himalayan salt and they both stopped dead and looked at me as if I had admitted to carrying a collection of Ann Summers merchandise in the contents of my handbag.
Pink Himalayan salt you say? Said Dad.
Yep, I said, it’s salt and its pink and its from the Himalayas and Kath gave it to me because it reminded her of me.
Pink Himalayan salt?? said Helen, in the kind of incredulous tones usually reserved for those admitting to an affair with Sally Bercow.
And I said, YES. PINK. HIMALAYAN. SALT. Because my fuse was short and my Mum had just died and these two similarly grief-stricken imbeciles seemed to be having terrible difficulty understanding the concept of pink salt and I wasn’t in the mood to explain it to them, nor to work out why they were now looking at each other as if I was the one who had lost her marbles.
Turns out that on that very day they had bought me a jar of pink Himalayan salt themselves, and they were feeling proud as punch of said purchase until I blew the surprise by not only already owning one, but having it about my person on the same day. I thought they would never recover from the sheer coincidence of the matter.
So there you have it: if you have ever wondered what kind of condiment I am, the answer is salt of the pink Himalayan variety. My closest family and bestest friend can’t all be wrong now can they?