Main Ingredients:
boyfriend
psychiatrist
garlic
cheap red wine
love letter

Spice Pack:
1/8 teaspoon of relief
1/3 dollop of ennui

Yeah, I know. Transgressive in every way.  You’re not supposed to date your psychiatrist. Call me bored. But, to be fair, he was just doing my meds, not my talk therapy. A “drug-dispensing robot for drug-seeking morons” was how he’d describe himself when he was loaded.

And, boy, could he get loaded. Pharm raised, pharm educated. With access, before they jacked his license, to everything in the pantry. Pharm to table.

In the final death spiral of our “relationship,” at the Ellington Arms Motor Inn, Bakersfield, the day came when we completely ran out. Shake the pill bottle, throw it at the wall. Shake the next pill bottle, etc. It was almost a relief.

Not to be defeated, he grabbed the box of red wine and lofted it like a newborn or a trophy with a mischievous air of purpose. He rubbed the heel of his right thumb ceremoniously in the petri dish where the coke once dwelt and carefully set out a full clove of garlic -- unpeeled -- at the edge of the coffee table. He took a swig, licked the thumb, and chomped down on the garlic like the happiest of limes in the happiest of times.

I followed suit. Same wince as tequila-salt-’n-lime. He was dead before Christmas. I’ve had at least one wine-’n-garlic every December since.