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May 10, 2006
The Meating.
The piece of land on which our house sits was subdivided from a larger lot. Our building comes within a few feet of the boundary. There's a shared private space with our southern neighbor; that's where the trash cans live, and when the water heater needs replacing, that's where I'll lead the plumber.
Our bathroom window is an arm's length from someone's bedroom. Thankfully, they keep their blinds drawn most of the time. Just above the window is a kitchen vent, which is really the point of this post.
You see, the vent stands in a magic vector that directs all kitchen odors into our bathroom. I'm more concerned about my neighbor's cholesterol than my own; I smelled bacon and pan-grilled steak within hours of each other last weekend.
Those smells don't truly permeate our house, unlike another odor that Liz and I cannot place after more than a year of careful consideration. At least once, and sometimes twice each week, a phenomenon occurs that I call The Meating.
During The Meating, our home is suffused with a greasy funk that smells like a someone powered up a Fry Daddy they found in the back of their garage and never cleaned.
It smells like the gristly flesh of an unfortunate animal fit only for the cafeteria of a supermax prison built atop an abandoned offshore oil platform.
The Department of Agriculture has several different rankings of meat quality. This doesn't have the presumed aroma of "prime," "choice," or "select." "Utility" might fit the bill.
The Meating always takes me by surprise. even when I'm braced for it. Dashing around to light incense and close windows after the fact can beat back the oleaginous cloud, but not completely.
I'm going to pick up some PETA flyers on my way home and shove them under the neighbor's door.
Posted by Your Protagonist at May 10, 2006 09:54 AM