Well, it's Halloween again and this year I truly have something scary to offer up to the neighborhood kids. This is the smell in my refrigerator. A few weeks ago, after dining at a nice restaurant where the chicken was so flavorful and so tender that eating it was like...french kissing a charismatic chicken with soft lips and delicately sweet breath (perhaps I'll extend the simile no further), I became inspired to cook some excellent chicken myself. But since I don't cook, I was extraordinarily happy to visit the fresh chicken aisle at the Burbank Pavillions and find out that Foster's Farms was now making pre-marinated chicken breasts, still sitting in the marination-- ensuring that their flavor would knock me out of this universe! The breasts were sealed in the finest clear baggies, and inside of this vault a mixture of herbs and spices swam in (what seemed to be) delicious juices. It was a veritable chicken snowglobe, a gustatory wonderland.
When I got home and cut open the baggie of tastiness, a strong, strong herby smell hit me, but I just thought that these were the flavors leaping out to greet me, having been so long constrained by their nasty jail. I thought that they would dance around for a little bit, happy to be free, but then their enthusiasm would die out in time. I put the chicken breasts into a baking pan and inserted them in the oven, also believing that the oppressive heat of this unit would do much to squelch the quickly overwhelming joy of aforementioned herbs and spices. I cooked at a low, slow heat. I tried to ignore the smell coming from my kitchen by engaging in US Weekly immersion.
When the breasts were a-ready, I separated one of their kind from the rest, cut into it, and took a bite. For once in my life, I had actually mastered the tender part of chicken-preparation, but the softness of my chicken could not be enjoyed, seeing as how the Foster Farms herbs and spices were POUNDING my tongue into submission. They proceeded to hold their own little "Burning Man" festival, getting naked, rubbing their sweaty nakedness over my buds, and then lighting my mouth on fire.
Naively (always the optimist), I thought, "The herbs just need time to quiet!" Sometimes I bring Indian food home and pop it in the fridge, and by the next day the peppers have calmed and the food is delicious! I unwisely believed the same of the FF monster I had born.
But lo and behold, the next morning when I opened my refrigerator door, I was greeted with the smell of none other than Lady Death. I know what Jeffrey Dahmer's fridge must have smelled like now. I know what it would be like had Forest Lawn needed an additional plot of land and spread to my cool box. My boyfriend hath smell this smell from yonder fridge and hath dove into the bed, burying his face into the pillow to escape the fate that awaits all of our bodies!
This was approximately three weeks ago that I bought and cooked and stored this chicken. And even though I threw out this chicken the day after learning of its persistent horror, the smell persists.
My mother says I must scrub my entire refrigerator and freezer with baking soda, but I have not the energy to clean.
So today, on Halloween, I will make lemons out of lemonades, and while other neighbors might be making bowls of peeled grapes and telling squeeling children, "Kids! Close your eyes and put your hands in these vats of human eyeballs!" I will simply be inviting the young ones in, opening up the fridge door, and letting them bask in the smell of their human destiny.