Bob Olson is the host of Afterlife TV, author of Answers About The Afterlife and The Magic Mala, and founder of BestPsychicDirectory.com. You’re reading his articles on Bob Olson Connect.
Having once lived in Los Angeles, Melissa and I love to return now and then for a visit. The last time we were there, we stayed in a quaint little condo in Santa Monica within walking distance of a fabulous outdoor shopping area called Third Street Promenade. Within this grouping of hip stores are several restaurants, including one I particularly like, Johnny Rockets—a 1950s-style hamburger joint.
We were vacationing with our two nieces, ages fifteen and seventeen, and the four of us sat down at a table outside Johnny Rockets that overlooked the vacationers and street musicians. After ordering a #12 hamburger with fries, I added a chocolate malt to set the mood for fun.
Since I’m deathly allergic to peanuts, peanut butter, and peanut oil, a little voice inside me said I shouldn’t risk getting a malt since I knew they made peanut malts in the same blender. I ignored the voice in the name of fun—a chocolate malt felt like a reasonable risk.
To offset the little voice inside me, I asked the waiter if he could wash the blender before making my malt. He assured me he’d do it himself, which got me thinking: Big tip for this guy.
When the malt was delivered, I began sucking it down like a six-year-old. I noticed something unusual was getting caught in my straw. Cool! Marshmallows, I thought to myself. This must be something new.
On the sixth marshmallow, I told Melissa, “I think they’ve added marshmallows to their chocolate malts.”
In deep conversation with our nieces, Melissa stopped mid-sentence, “What do you mean there are marshmallows? Are you sure that’s what they are?”
“I don’t know,” I replied, biting into one. That’s when my day turned a corner.
The little marshmallow-like substance was dry peanut malt powder that stuck together because it wasn’t blended enough. Having eaten five of these “marshmallows,” with a sixth in my mouth, I knew I needed immediate medical attention. This was the most significant amount of peanut anything I’d ever eaten, and I’d been in emergency rooms after eating much less.
I remembered that I hadn’t brought my EpiPen on vacation. The waiter came over to ask if our meals were okay. I asked him why peanut malt was in my chocolate malt, and he said that the cook spoke Spanish and must have misunderstood him. I didn’t bother to ask him why he didn’t do it himself like he’d promised. I needed to react fast.