No, No, Nostradamus.

Or: I Just Knew This Was Going To Happen

The Culprit

I’m very annoyed with Nostradamus. Yes, I do mean the 16th Century Provençal pharmacist-turned-mystic. Yes, the author of thousands of deliberately vague four-line prophesies over which psychics tend to wet themselves. But it isn’t his questionable prognostications regarding the rise of Napoleon or the Fall of Hitler or anything else historical that’s bunching my briefs.

It’s one of his recipes. Yes, you read that right. Recipes. He wrote several of them. Mostly nostrums for the plague with a few beauty treatments thrown in case one survived said plague.