“I didn’t eat nuts! I ate a salad! Who puts nuts in salad?”

Y

ou’d have thought I’d have learned my lesson.

Especially since not much time had passed since that memorable sheva brachos that landed me in the ER with an itchy rash not only all over my skin, but also inside my throat, making me feel like it was closing up. I was afraid I’d soon have trouble breathing.

“What was the culprit for this reaction?” asked the nurse conversationally, trying to distract me from the IV she was slipping into my vein.

“Cashews,” I said, undistracted.

“Nut allergy?”

“Uh-huh,” I said, as she mindlessly taped the needle onto my wrist while I watched, highly mindful.

“You didn’t know you were allergic to nuts?” she asked.

“I did! My mother discovered my allergy when I was a year old.” And this was my daughter’s sheva brachos we’re coming from, I wanted to add, but I was too itchy and my throat lining felt too thick for me to explain.

Her eyes widened in surprise. “What made you eat nuts, then?” she asked.

“I didn’t eat nuts! I ate a salad! Who puts nuts in salad?”