A Foul Stench

The Scene is Set

So, basements. Basements are one of the best bonus spaces of any house. We have a fabulous basement, if you discount the fact that it floods occasionally. It's huge and unfinished, a blank canvas. Basements can serve so many purposes simultaneously. Ours is a hoarder space / laundry room / cat zone / tertiary play area / former bunny abode. Also, the tools live there. And the chest freezer. And furniture that I'm supposed to be refinishing. Also, my extensive collection of tissue paper, boxes, bows, and gift bags.

A New Smell

There is so much going on in the basement, that it is hard to keep track of, and it has started to take on a life of its own. So when it started to smell really foul a couple weeks ago, I had no idea what was causing the stench. I emptied Cat's litter box. I sprayed some rogue mold with bleach. I looked for dead mice (this is not a regular occurrence, but it's happened once before).

Given the fact that it floods and has been inhabited by domestic animals (and wild spiders) for years, the basement never smells like roses. Occasionally, it smells like anise. I have yet to figure out why. But this was an entirely new smell, and a really awful one at that. I finally decided it must be coming from the dehumidifier, which is cleaned with less frequency than the manual recommends. Since it's supposed to be cleaned with vinegar and I abhor the smell of vinegar, I asked the Husband to handle it at the weekend.

The Smell is Unmasked

The weekend came, and the husband cleaned the dehumidifier and left it in the sun to dry. The horrible stench was fading slightly, but it was still there. I don't normally touch the Husband's laundry, but I went to move it from the washer to the dryer, and I had to place some of it on the chest freezer, which is next to the washing machine (it's a power outlet issue; there are only two outlets, so anything that requires electricity is relegated to one of two locales in the basement). I glanced down and saw a slab of meat lying next to the freezer, hiding between the freezer and a towering stack of boxes.

The slab of meat was two pork chops from 2012 (one of my decent Housewife skills is writing dates on things, otherwise it would have been anyone's guess how old they were), which I had pulled out of the freezer to throw away... oh, a couple weeks ago (another Housewife skill: I don't serve 4-year-old meat to my family). Since I did not throw the meat onto the floor myself, I will paint a picture of what I believe happened:

It's a Tale with a Tail

I left the meat lying on the freezer by accident, instead of bringing it upstairs to the trash. Cat, who thinks he's being starved to death, saw the meat, recognized it as such, failing to read the date. Cat then attacked the meat, knocking it into submission on the ground, and bit into the bag. He tasted the meat, realized it was no good, and promptly commenced eating Easter grass to barf it up. Several barfs later, he went about his merry way, leaving behind a holey bag with 4-year-old meat to grace the basement with its fragrance.

The End.

The meat was removed from the basement and the smell vanished.

This is a good thing, because we are having a party Sunday and I don't need to be dealing with a smelly basement. I have a long list of things to do already.



The list. It's very detailed, as you can see.

 Writing a blog post is not one of the things to-do, so I'd better get back to the business of being

-A Real Housewife of the North Shore

Cake and the ocean

There is a song that I hear at least once every morning while I do the paper route called Cake by the Ocean. Perhaps you've heard it. Cake by the ocean starts out sounding great and then ends up a sandy mess, like my Saturday.

The Ocean

Saturday started out relatively successfully; I woke up later than normal, flew through the paper route in under three hours, most of which was during daylight. Daylight - so I could see the ocean, not just hear the waves in the dark, and there were all sorts of birds noisily flapping about: a duck that refused to move from a driveway, so he nearly got hit by my car; some birds prettier than seagulls that I will refer to as terns, floating on the breeze; the owl-like cry of a mourning dove; a random woodpecker.

It was as good as one can hope for in a newspaper route. I came home, was greeted by Thing 2, and made the family French toast and bacon. I gave myself a syrupy pat on the back.

Cake

Now, the cake was another matter entirely. I didn't start out with lofty ambitions for the cake or anything, it was just going to be a nice two-layer, box-mix, frosting-from-a-can cake. I know my limits.

I solicited Thing 1 and Thing 2's input and they reminded me that the recipient - my father in law - likes purple, so we bought some purple icing and purple decorating gel. Thing 1 helped me mix the cake, we poured it in the pans, and popped it in the oven. Twenty-six minutes later, two delicious pans of cake were set to cool on the stovetop.

Several minutes after that, The Cat appeared on the scene. He's on a strict diet due to his adult-onset diabetes, and he seems to believe we're starving him, so he ravenously devours any crumbs we leave lying around on the floor, and licks clean empty yogurt containers. I give him insulin twice a day and bought this expensive, diabetes-friendly cat food; but, given all the food scraps he steals, I'm not sure that his prognosis is good.

You can see where this is going. But before you tell me I ought to have known better, I will clarify that while The Cat adores muffins and crescent rolls, he has never once before eaten cake.

Saturday was his inaugural cake eating. His "cake smash," if you will. I returned to put the cakes away until I could frost them with Thing 1's help, when I discovered the evidence of The Cat's latest mission to further his diabetes. There was some screaming (from me).

But all was not lost! The Cat had restricted his dining to a relatively small section of one cake, so I felt that, with frosting, the cake could still pass muster. Perhaps a carefully removed section of cake would not only eliminate the cat cooties, but also add an element of design. I went to work.

Cat cooties - isolated and eliminated!

It became clear to me, as I slathered on the first can of frosting, that the removal of an eighth of the cake was not, by itself, a design element. I soldiered on, determined to fix the situation with a second can of frosting. Thing 1 arrived on scene and I explained the situation to her. She had some helpful suggestions.

Between the two of us, we frosted and iced the crap out of the cake until it looked like a masterpiece.


Just kidding!



Good thing I never got around to opening that bakery I dreamed about running when I was a kid. I'm no baker, I'm just a

-Real Housewife of the North Shore.

All the Small Things

Maybe it's because nothing dramatic or big is going down right now in my life, but the last week has really been all about the small things. I am like this Market Basket employee who went bananas over bananas:

Do you see it? Taste the rainbow... tastes like bananas.

It's like the brain, craving stimulation, finds excitement in the tiniest things.

I earned a $2 tip on the newspaper route!

I didn't fall down today on the newspaper route!

The Baby took a two-hour nap!

I saw a skunk!

It was also my birthday week, which was full of small things that meant a lot to me. Friends came over and brought dinner and cakes. The Husband remembered my birthday for the first time ever (it has only taken him 11 years). My parents gave me a nice raincoat and socks.

And so I stumble onwards (literally; this newspaper route is making me feel old and clumsy) happily.

This afternoon we're going to slosh through the April snow and buy some of those exciting bananas.

That's the life of

-A Real Housewife of the North Shore