Soup Miasma

I knew it was bad, but by the time we came home from work, the situation had degenerated further.

On the walk home from the bus, I had decided that I would run to the co-op and get a few necessary ingredients for dinner recipes, and Pete would feed the cats. Then we had a thousand dishes to do, which I said I would take care of, as long as Pete disposed of the old soup.

I knew that I would not be able to handle it.

I opened the fridge to check on supplies, and the malodorous stench washed over me. It filled the kitchen, and I could even detect it in the living room. Pete could not. I guess I will rely on myself to search out all forms of evil in the house in the future. I already had a pretty acute sense of smell before the onset of pregnancy, and now it's like a super power. It was a good thing I had a plan and the energy to leave because I could not stand to be in the house.

I have developed an interesting relationship with leftovers. I should restate that as "an interesting and indiscriminate intolerance." I can only stand them for a couple of days, and then I find myself repulsed by them, in general. Some I cannot abide at all. They are fine the first time around, and then they are done. I think it is related to the smell issue, and my senses are trying to protect me and the fetus in some way. It goes against my sensibilities to throw away food and, try as he might, Pete can't eat everything. The soup lost all attraction for me, and Pete grew tired of it, so it sat on the bottom shelf of the fridge and festered in the bitterness of rejection.

Let that be a lesson. When you fester in the bitterness of rejection, you get flushed down the toilet.

The sausage and beans are next.