Peee-yew

How could this little scorch make that much smoke?

Last week as I was completing my frenzy of not-really-vacation-but-not-really-work cleaning, Husband walked into the house. He wrinkled his nose (not an easy feat, given the impressiveness of that schnozz) and said, "Ewwww. What smells?"

I had just cleaned out the refrigerator and thrown away a fair quantity of post-prime vegetables, de-scaled two electric coffeemakers, and cleaned the oven, so the smell could have come from rotting organic matter, boiling vinegar, or EasyOff (no fumes, but still distinctive). I drew a deep breath and answered my beloved with an I-Am-Woman roar.

"That? That's the smell of CLEAN."

I did not speak but clearly implied the "you person who is ungrateful for the hours I've spent ruining my nail polish in pursuit of wifely perfection," so last night when Husband walked in the door after work his eyes bulged but he did not say a word.

"Notice anything different?" I prodded just a little.

"New perfume?"

Uh, no. That was the smell a decorative resin spoonholder emits when a burner is mistakenly turned on under said spoonholder instead of under the pasta pot. Folks, not even every door in the house flung open in the 97-degree weather clears out that smoke and those fumes, which I'm quite sure were toxic and absolutely permeated not only the kitchen but also the remainder of the house and my nasal passages.

Husband may have been cagey enough to ignore the odor but Boy#4 hasn't lived as long as his father.
 
"Ewwwww. What smells?" Four grimaced as he walked in the door. When Husband explained the burner mishap, my darling son was oh, so relieved.

"Thank heavens. I was afraid it was supper."

Future wife of Boy#4, wherever you are, I have done you a service. I explained to my son that this is probably not the best comment he could have made to the woman who makes sure food is ON THE TABLE for him when he arrives home from work every. single. night.

You're welcome, future Mrs. Four. Now please overlook the spoonholder fumes that I'm sure will still be lingering even though you haven't even met my son yet. It's not anything I'm cooking.