tears. This story finds me starting my weekend off with a bang.
I had just done the big grocery shopping for my 30 day cook. I put the fresh chicken thighs into the (adorable) 1950's GE fridge. Six packages of meat. Family packs. Thursday afternoon, preparing to make a big batch of BBQ Chicken for our dinner, I went to the GE and noticed right away that something smelled funny. Not funny-ha-ha! but funny-odd. I actually stood there sniffing out what I might find to be the culprit....all six bags of meat cutting into my hands...dangling out behind me.
I plopped the heavy bags onto the kitchen counter with a jolly thud. Feeling so proud of myself for having meat to fix for dinner. Humming to myself, I prepared to well, prepare. When I caught a whiff of the smell. Sniffing my own stinky armpit first. (OH, you know I did) Whoosh! Bad but not what I was looking for. This was a sorta rancid smell.
I opened up the first package of chicken.
I was met with the most disgusting, hair curlin' odor. I lunged back. What the heck? I snuck in for a better look and smell. Everything appeared to be fine. No little rainbows on the meat. Meat was still very pink, no graying. All signs, I had been taught to look for. But that smell. So, using a trick I've used with blood shot beef, I placed all the thighs in a large bowl of cold water.
Boy howdy! That bird was
After changing out the water and giving the meat another sniff I find it was still bad. I was now totally ticked. Ticked at the fridge. Ticked at the butcher. Ticked at myself.
I sulked around wondering what to do. Hubby was home wanting dinner. He frankly didn't smell anything that seemed OFF to him. He would eat it....he proffered.
I couldn't handle the loss of the meat. The cost of the fuel to return the rotten meat would be more than the meat had originally cost. UGH!
In a desperate attempt to salvage the meat, Inspector General decides, 'this meat will not go to waste'. It shall be cooked and fed to the animals.
(read: This was solely for my benefit, as he would have just as soon thrown it in the trash or used it as raccoon bait.)
Rancid meat was packed into all of the Crock Pots I own and set to stew overnight.
The horrific odor that greeted me in the morning made me wish for a gas mask. As I strolled into my kitchen to asses the damage, a curious sight met my eyes.
My cup had surely run over. It had overflowed right out of the crock of friendship starter. Spilled right out onto the counter from the crocks of rotten meat and even dripped onto the floor.
I spent the next two hours cleaning up the greasy, rancid, fermented, sticky mess. I think I burned a bit of the skin off my hand with the ammonia. Now that was a smell. The ammonia, flesh eating, need a gas mask ambrosia.
You just can't catch a break, can you?
No....my friend, my cup surely runeth over.