Because most of my misadventures that I've chronicled so far in this blog occurred in that ancient epoch that I think of as my youth, the casual reader of these posts might think that, as my years have advanced, I no longer indulge in the kind of rash decision-making that has led me into situations like those I've described. Indeed, the arrival of a certain incredibill (incredible, even!) lady at the end of my twenties ushered in a new era of responsibility on my part. The subsequent arrival of an incrediboy and, even more recently, an incredibaby required still more maturity from their formerly dimwitted pop; nevertheless, there are still occasions when an apparently oxygen-starved portion of my brain seizes the reins. One such episode occurred on a recent trip to Phoenix.
Incidentally, did you know that it is apparently impossible to swallow a spoonful of cinnamon? I mean, literally, physically impossible. I know, I was skeptical, too, when my brother told me this little fact, but he assured me that he had seen numerous videos demonstrating the impossibility of actually swallowing a spoonful of cinnamon, although he was a bit coy with the details of the failures he had witnessed.
I'm sure anyone reading this has already figured out where this story is going. In my defense, I really was curious about the mechanics of swallowing a spoonful of cinnamon; I mean, what physical property of cinnamon could make it impossible to swallow in significant quantities? And also, I must admit that, deep down, I suspected that I had enough innate skill and physical grace to swallow any challenge. You know what I mean. Oh, and there was three matter of the three dollars. That's right, apparently three bucks is my price for putting my life on the line in the name of science.
Bear in mind that our respective wives and children were present, so I had quite an audience. My wife and sister-in-law, though shaking their heads over this silliness, were both more than a little curious about our little experiment, so neither protested too strongly. Both, however, stepped in on my behalf when my brother, in a fever of scientific zeal, initially produced a serving spoon laden with what must have been four tablespoons of cinnamon. Their intercession and the subsequent reduction of the sample size to a more moderate tablespoon of cinnamon probably saved my life that night. Or at least my esophagus.
My son, the oldest of the four children present, sensed that something was up, and was becoming a little anxious. Recognizing that I was perhaps engaging in a bit of irresponsible parenting, but feeling that I was in too deep to call it off, I opted for damage control in the hopes that I could avoid any serious emotional scarring. I advised all of the children present (although my brother's newborn couldn't have cared less) that they should never, ever do what they were about to see daddy do. With the absolute minimum of my parenting obligations thus satisfied, I steeled myself and shoveled a tablespoon of cinnamon into my mouth.
For a moment, as the spoonful of cinnamon sat on my tongue, all was well...then I swallowed. Now, the thing that makes swallowing cinnamon so difficult isn't that it's hot--it was certainly milder than any pepper you might consume at a Thai restaurant--or that it tastes gross (which it does). It's that the act of swallowing the cinnamon instantly turns it into a cloud. I tried manfully to contain the cloud inside my mouth for what seemed like several seconds (but was actually probably less than a millisecond), until it began going up my nose, at which point I coughed out a huge cloud of cinnamon. I then frantically ran to the sink and began frantically spitting the disgusting mess into the garbage disposal. At about this time, I became aware of the second problem with swallowing a spoonful of cinnamon. The fine powder that actually comes into contact with the moist surfaces inside of your mouth immediately turns into glue. As I frantically rinsed my mouth with glass after glass of disgusting Phoenix tap water, I found that a surprising amount of the insidious spice remained firmly pasted to my mouth. Particularly troublesome was the ring of grit that was clinging halfway down my throat; too far down to rinse out with water, too stuck to the moist surface of my esophagus for me to cough it up.
Of course, my son's concern had by this time escalated into full-blown anxiety, so between spitting and hacking gross brown sludge into the sink, I was delivering such nuggets of parental wisdom as, "Daddy's fine, he just did something very silly," and, "This is what happens when you do what Daddy just did." What a fine, shining example of fatherhood I am.
Anyway, eventually the ring of cinnamon-flavored mucilage in my gullet stimulated my gag reflex sufficiently that I began puking in earnest. I mean serious, projectile vomiting. And I had just eaten about a bowlful of guacamole for dinner. Fortunately, a couple of good blorks was sufficient to clear the last of the cinnamon goop from my throat, and to convert the other adults' laughter into concern (with a hint of disgust). I assured everyone that I was just fine, and we all had a good laugh.
And my brother gave me ten bucks.
--Incredibill
PS - If anyone wants to see what this looked like, just search "cinnamon challenge" on YouTube. There are some good videos of this phenomenon out there.
No comments:
Post a Comment