It sounds like the premise of a joke: A girl walks into her kitchen and smells something strange… But it’s no laughing matter. As soon as I approach my kitchen, my cilia—the first line of defense—start vibrating. Then the smell hits my olfactory sense and I recoil from the stink punch to my face.
Extreme measures must be taken. This invisible but foul foe must be hunted down, rubbed out, and replaced with a scent I can stomach.
Where do I start? Is it the sink, trashcan, recycling bins, fridge, or perhaps the innocent-looking sponge? Where the eff is it coming from? It smells like Matthew McConaughey’s pits mingled with my grandma’s bathroom, laced with a soupçon of sour dairy, a nasty nasal cocktail to be sure. Is there a putrid poltergeist squatting in my kitchen? Am I trapped in a moody Japanese horror film? Is the new trashcan liner ass-scented? Is an alligator decomposing in my pipes? The old hard-boiled Easter eggs and sour milk were chucked days ago; could their aura live on? And I shudder to think about what could be lying in the cupboard behind the Honeycombs box.
Kitchen, what the smell is your problem? Why you gotta be all mysterious and shit? You’re an enigma wrapped in a mystery wrapped in a leftover burrito, and it’s time to wake up and smell the hoses. If you don't come clean, I'm going to scrub you raw and drown you in bleach. Suck on that, you reeking punk-ass airborne bitch.