That bloody churchmen

When we discuss health matters lately by email (facial wrinkles, whole grains, yoga, and the like) which is all the time, my friend began highly recommending churchmen. As we do not normally discuss our spiritual preferences, I let it slide. But it was getting kind of creepy. Was she born again without telling me? Was she going all cult-y? Yoga talk is about as close as we get to organized religion.

My friend does not review her email before sending. She was recommending curcumin. My friend does not know how to turn off her auto-correct.

Curcumin was better known to me as turmeric. A rather exotic spice popular in Asian foods. This amazing, natural anti-inflammatory was going to soothe my free radicals, whatever they are. Those online health rags boast exciting, neurotrophic-boosting antioxidant.

Now ... I've been through all the cosmetic and food and health fads with my friend. The miracles of red wine, vitamin E oil, kale, vitamin imbalances, naturopathic remedies, Feldenkrais, aquafaba, you name it. It took ages to self-diagnose her allergy to red wine. The last marvel was swathing coconut oil on your face, your hands, your body, your frying pan. I was the walking embodiment of intensive sunscreen aroma, spreading the joy everywhere I walked. Until the pervasive smell was making me heave. How many grease-stained pillowcases did I have to throw out. It was some time before I could face my beloved Thai green curry again.

So. The turmeric. Instead of buying a tiny, expensive, fancy container, I opted for like a one-pound bag at my dollar department store for the same price. The thrill of a bargain. The optimism. Simply sprinkle a teaspoon on your salad, your stir fry, your frozen dinner. If a teaspoon helps, why not a tablespoon? Maximizing my disease prevention.

No-one tells you it's yellow peril if you drop so much as a grain of powder anywhere other than on its food destination. A grain here, a grain there. No-one tells you that turmeric is non-erasable. On the counter, the utensils, the dishes, the tea towel, my shirt, my hands, the (white) floor. My face, after consumption. Yellow. Not my favourite colour. Bright, blinding yellow that defies every scrubbing; epic fail of industrial strength cleanser. Here is my kitchen:

 

Van Gogh would have loved it. I'm going to sell the remaining fifteen and a half ounces to a graffiti artist.

YELLOW BASTARD.