We ignored it for a few days, but after returning from visiting Bret’s parents this weekend, we could stand it no longer.
“Where is that smell coming from?” I asked in an admittedly disgusted voice. I opened the pantry that houses our garbage and recycling. “Not there.” I stick my nose in the sink on the disposer side. “Not there.” I open the refrigerator and am smacked in the face with stench.
Over the past couple of weeks, we’ve had many guests. My parents were here and we made a turkey. Bret’s sister and her family came and we made fondue. The Eagles played the Giants. We invited friends and made a ham. All of these guests and events produced leftovers, which were now filling my fridge in tupperware. And one of them smelled. Bad.
One by one, I took the containers from the refrigerator to inspect, thirteen in all. Broccoli, potatoes, fruit, chocolate/peanut butter concoction. Fondue. Stuffing. Turkey. Ham, pineapple. Giants/Eagles game. There were a few more in there that had no doubt exceeded their shelf life. I can’t even remember when we made them. Pigs in a blanket. Who saves those? My husband, that’s who. Something that looks like queso dip and one so unrecognizable that the whole tupperware container went in the garbage with it. Eww.
We trashed. We washed. We dried. We have yet to put away and they are still in the dish strainer. But alas, I have not yet found the answer to my question.