Here I am, with my best Debbie Downer voice, heavy sigh, and eyeroll.
"Well, it's official. I have no taste."
I won't exactly say that taste is the first to go when one has a head cold. There's equilibrium. A good night's sleep. And catching a breath without sounding like Darth Vader. But taste is right up there with stuff you don't want to lose.
Today, for instance, a local church sent over a cake for Teacher Appreciation Day. I spied it during my plan time second hour. You have to be pretty jaded and blind and self-absorbed to miss a beauty of a whole sheet cake, shimmering white, with purple lettering on top. I kept my mitts off of it. Mrs. Hillbilly Mom ain't gonna be the first to despoil a tasty community treat.
As the bell rang at 10:53 to signal first lunch shift, an announcement came out of the ceiling informing the faculty that this cake was for them. When I stopped by the faculty women's restroom at 11:15, to take care of business, not wash my hair in the sink, I saw the sad remains of our baked-goods bonanza. It looked like those Capitol One pillagers had hacked off chunks with a double-sided Viking axe. Or their bare hands. That pitiful cake was missing over half its chocolate body, and most of its fine suit of vanilla frosting had been stripped from its back.
Not that I wanted any, mind you. I have no taste. A piece of chocolate cake with vanilla buttercream icing would taste the same as a foam rubber pillow coated with Vicks VapoRub. I didn't see the point.
Tomorrow we're having mostaccioli and fettuccine alfredo. It will be like rubber bands in glue for me.