It begins with denial.
As you close the fridge in the early morning, replacing the cream, you notice a whiff.
Nah.
Probably just musty.
This happened a few weeks ago, and with each subsequent morning, a new and deepening complexity.
Cabbage?
Cheese?
Socks?
Last week I carefully tossed, repackaged, resealed, wiped, and added a fresh batch of baking soda. We don’t consume much that has a high fat content and could go rancid, but I poked through a package of cold cuts, opened the cheese and repackaged it into a sealing glass/silicone container, and scanned through the door which holds nothing that spoils: seventeen sorts of hot sauce, one ketchup, and a bevy of mustards (which start bad, in my opinion, but don’t go bad).
Falling short of an obvious culprit, I nominated the raw parmesan as tribute and went about life.
The smell lingered.
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