I’m pretty sure that the oven is a serial killer’s dump site.
The temporary home that my parents and I are currently living in is perfectly serviceable. It has a roof and a floor, and it hasn’t burned to the ground, so it already has a few marked features better than the 3,000 sq. ft. house that currently resembles a pile of ashes. However, it has several less-savory features, including the fact that if you turn on the oven, the fetid, swarming smell of ripe decay fills the air. We have since accepted that if we need to turn on the oven, the house will stink. Consequently, we have renamed our most-cherished family recipes to reflect the nuances of the scent:
- Chocolate Chip Corpse Cookies
- Cadaver Casserole
- Dead Hooker Ham
- Formaldehyde Fois Gras
- Mausoleum Monkey Bread
- Putrid Pizza
While the food doesn’t absorb too much of The Stench, the reek doesn’t dissipate, but instead hangs around with the tenacity of a roommate’s mooching boyfriend. I have plastered my sweater to my body with Guerlain’s Shalimar, because nothing can compete with the assaulting odor more than pure, unadulterated Sexy Stank.