[in which I type for five minutes straight stopping only when the timer goes ding]

Burning one’s tongue is uniquely maddening.

After that initial scorch of pain – which is usually prolonged because you’re holding a full cup of searingly hot liquid – there’s the fact that you can’t taste a damn thing. This drives me INSANE.

And certain food only exacerbate the problem. Can’t eat tomatoes. No citrus. Nothing spicy. Not even grapes. I don’t know why grapes.

It’s humbling, because you’re completely at the mercy of this small, but vital part of your face. Not being able to taste is probably the biggest drawback. I’m a fan of food. All kinds of food. Not being able to experience food makes me want to cry.

C and I celebrated our one-year anniversary recently (hip hip!) and had the best meal of our lives. Literally. The best. Nine courses and three hours later, we’d experienced every palatable sensation known to man. And then the server set down a beautiful little plate containing a two truffles, two caramels, and two macarons.

Have you seen Mr. Creosote (sp?) via Monty Python? It was wafer-thin. I was slightly

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