When I was about six or seven I was wondering around the house. I walked into my parents bedroom and there was one of those small jelly glasses about half full of cranberry juice. What came over me to drink some warm cranberry juice sitting on their dresser is beyond me but I gulped it all down. Then I realized it was not cranberry juice. I did not know what it was but it was horrible.
I wondered downstairs and in a very nonchalant way I asked my mother what was in that glass in their room.
She immediately got upset and said “YOU DID NOT DRINK ANY DID YOU?”. Her tone through me in a panic. I started crying and said yes. This was answered with “OH MY GOD, OH MY GOD”
She grabbed me and dragged me into the bathroom with her fingers down my throat. I started gagging and throwing up red “juice”. She then forced me to drink a glass of milk and then back to the bathroom with more gagging and vomiting.
Believe me then I tell you that kerosene tastes nothing like cranberry juice.
A friend of mine once handed me what looked to be a white finger sized cookie. I bit into the thing and discovered it had a distinctly non-vanilla, non-sweet taste. Looking over at him I asked him, “What the fuck was that?” He showed me the package and it was some kind of parmesan cheese breadstick. He continued to munch happily away on the things, puzzled as to why I found them disgusting.
The downside is I tried to use it on the carpet. My all-purpose cleaning remedy of a paste of baking soda to remove tough stains is usually effective. It’s less effective when you accidentally substitute icing sugar for baking soda. It’s also hell to get out of the carpet.
When my mom was a young adult, she lived with her older brother and his wife. My mom made a cake one day when she was home. When she tasted it, she found she had used salt instead of sugar. Hating to see it wasted, and also hoping to get rid of the evidence, she broke the cake up and fed it to the chickens. The chickens ate it right up and died from the overdose of salt.
They were placing those block mirrors on one of their bedroom walls. They were like 12"X12" and some of them needed cut to fit properly.
My father was using the kerosene to aid in cutting them. I guess he dipped the glass cutter in the kerosene before running it over the block to make the cut.
The kerosene was red because it was the kind that goes in hurricane lamps and makes them look pretty.
Nor does it taste like fondant candy, which is what I thought it was the first time I ever had a bento box - it was in the shape of a little flower - on a flight to Tokyo. I ended up running up and down the aisle of the plane with tears flowing down my face, looking for the toilet so I could spit up.
I was in the office, trying to tough it out in front of the other drones. Fresh, very hot coffee doesn’t ease the burn, surprisingly. It was a bad day and the wasabi wasn’t even in an attractive shape.
My younger brother did the same thing a few months ago, only he was making snickerdoodles, which are supposed to be rolled in cinnamon sugar, not cumin sugar. Now, usually, he’s brilliant, but this time it took him a while to figure out why they didn’t taste like mine. He is an adult, by the way.
I considered giving him a jar of cumin or cinnamon for Christmas, but decided it would be in poor taste (pun intended).
As my gramma was descending into demetia, she made some foul-tasting gingersnaps, which of course we all ate very slowly while trying to figure out what she’d done. Instead of powdered ginger she’d used powdered garlic.
A couple of weeks ago I had some items disinfecting in hydrogen peroxide, in a glass, on a shadowed shelf. The Man thought it was water and took a gulp. One panicked call to the Poison Control Center led us to the realization that it wasn’t bad, but he should dilute it with other liquids to keep from throwing up.
