ERROL PARKER | Editor-at-large | Contact
There’s not much Natalie Smithson won’t put salt on.
The 28-year-old’s favourite drink is a French Quarter staple – vodka, lime and salt water.
She even grinds a fine mist of sea salt over her cocoa rice cereal of a morning time, telling the other residents of her jazzy Betoota Heights red brick sharehouse that it enhances flavour in the right amounts.
Needless to say, the popular solicitor goes through a lot of sodium chloride.
“But I just can’t seem to get to the bottom of a grinder,” she told our reporters.
“Whenever the salt gets low in the shaker, it magically gets filled back up to the top again. It’s actually mental.”
Her housemates are also of the same opinion. They’ve never run out of salt, too.
“It must be magic,” said Olivia Granger, who lay slumped in the living room beanbag treating herself to an inside cigarette while her housemates were still at work.
She let out an earth-shattering cough and tried to spit the byproduct of it out the window but hit the curtain.
“Fuck,” she said softly.
“Fuck it. But yeah, back to what I was saying. We have a magic salt man who breaks into our house twice a month to replenish the salt grinder when it runs out. He’s the bin man’s cousin, who kicks our door in every Friday and takes the garbage out from the kitchen out to the truck,”
“Magic.”
Oliva rolled her eyes and told our reporter to get out of her house.
He did.
More to come.
