Every time I open the fridge, I’m hit with a wicked stench. I grab what I need, and quickly close the door singing Lynyrd Skynyrd. Because let’s be honest, he didn’t know what that smell was either.
After a week of odor wafting through my nostrils whenever I grabbed my next meal, I decided to take the plunge. I had to find what was rotting away and turning into a science experiment.
No squishy fruit. Milk’s okay; only a little chunky. Crusty block of cheese, just cut off the penicillin, no problem. No lost leftovers creeping in the back. Goat cheese-yep. Multi-colored isn’t the best antibiotic; I know I looked it up.
Life should have been good. Except it wasn’t.
Another three days passed and still I found myself singing Lynyrd Skynyrd at least three times a day. What is that retched smell? It got to the point I began singing Attack of the Bumblebees, or were they in Flight?—doesn’t matter. Either way it isn’t easy to sing a symphony, but gosh-darn it, I did it. Unfortunately, my heavenly vocals didn’t draw out the culprit.
That’s it! Time to get the hot water bucket of sudsy water and wipe the shelves. Now, to be transparent, cleaning out the fridge happens twice a year on the equinox, but man, it had to get done a month early. I blue-toothed Lynyrd Skynyrd through the portable speaker and dove in.
Starting from the top shelf, I took out all the normal food products, pulled and cleaned the shelf. One after another until I got to the drawers. I stuck my nose in the first drawer and breathed deep. Okay. A little funky, but not bad. Pull, clean, repeat. The second drawer I did the same, and bam, the band perfectly timed its chorus with the pungent odor entering my nostrils and lungs. Oh, the horribleness.
That smell, Mr. Skynyrd, was a forgotten bag of broccoli crunched in the corner, behind the drawer, trapped in a world of endless aroma that only dogs can hear and fairies can see.
OMG, that was fun to read. Yes, I was riveted!
I’m glad my sense of smell made your day!