Sunday, August 25, 2002

I just narrowly escaped death by Baba Ghanouj.

In the Kafkaesque household, weekends signal the time for DVD watching, beer consumption, and housecleaning. I dove into the Himalayan pile of dishes stacked by the sink with what I considered to be relative aplomb, and happily scrubbed and prewashed for our somewhat temperamental diahwasher. It fills me with delight that I have to wash everything before it can be adequately washed.

Anyway, I spotted a Whole Foods tub of Baba Ghanouj remains, perched on the edge of the sink, and half full of water, the top sealed.

I looked at it and thought, "You know, I bet that old Baba Ghanouj that's been soaking in water for over a week smells revolting."

So I did what any right-thinking individual would do: took the top off and held it to my nose. I don't know why I do things like this. It must be some inner deathwish, or perhaps the desire to be able to bore people with particularly evocative olfactory metaphors in the days to come.

A variety of descriptions spring to mind for the aroma that sprang from that little tub:

· the chill, death ridden air of the charnel house
· Satan's cologne
· a Bio-warfare weapon too awful to inflict upon humanity.

I lit matches. I waved towels. I sprayed things that you spray. Nothing would disperse that vile stench.

Even now I have visions that my memoirs will end thus:

It's late, and I fear the worst. The Baba Ghanouj smell has found me. I thought, halfway around the world in a small Tunisian village, I would be safe. And for years, my life has been idyllic. But always lurking in the back of my mind has been the threat that it would one day find me. I must close now. It comes.


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