emily blunt rant
is often a glorious sense, even dreamlike. For example, the smell
of vanilla, hot apple cider, or a man's cologne lingering on a
pillow. It can tickle your nostrils, conjuring up delightful memories
it can also be a horrific plateau of nausea from which there is
no escape! No matter how many times you rinse or scour there's
a sense of a scent askew. Like say after preparing Monk fish in
a small apartment in winter
receiving a George Foreman cooker - and promptly becoming addicted
to the stylings the contraption allows - I innocently brought
home a slab of Monkfish to grill.
is like a poor man's lobster and when full fat butter is drizzled
atop it can be better than sex
. I know I am a sad, sad person.
I originally discovered the discount delicacy due to its humorous
name which brought to mind a fish that resembled Friar Tuck with
Don Rickles' face
I plugged in the grill and prepared the feast for myself and my
two canine sons, who were drooling in anticipation of this evening's
fed till content as fatted ticks and all was right with the world.
But after we returned from our evening walky-woo-woo the three
of us were speed-slapped across the face as we entered my cubicle,
err, apartment. The dogs actually stopped short of entering
- what was this foul odor?
I mean never has a fouler scent permeated the dwelling.
It was a cross between say, old whore vagina and rotting corpses
that had dined on stink bugs and pots of coffee pre-mortem; truly
like nothing I ever smelt - smelled - have smelled.
god open the windows
ignite the candles
get the fans
a spinning! Nothing worked. The smell seemed to permeate the paintwork
and settle into the DNA of the building. My bathroom towels even
had an aura of green slime around them.
the washing and scrubbing began. The boys were vacated and the
bleach uncorked. Certainly I had nipped the odor at its effluvium
next day I attended a press junket, slathered in a about a gallon
of Banana Republic's finest petal perfume just in case
the big cheese celeb of le Jour spoke I noticed him kind of nervously
squirming in his chair, an odd look upon his face. I quickly thought,
" It's the old whore vagina/corpses scent! [gasp!] It must
be in the jacket!" How do I work the Monkfish into conversation
so I do not leave behind a stench of a reputation? I could hear
him saying later, "She seemed nice enough
but for the
love of Jason Robards Jr. what was that SMELL?" Argh.
I saw him dip his forefinger into his Latte and very casually
slip it beneath his nose! Oh no! He was creating an aromatherapy
relief digit, blocking his nostrils in lame defense. As polite
as the gesture was, I had to do something.
an Academy© winning performance I got
up to get water and took off my jacket. Without skipping a beat
I sniffed and "Grinched" my face saying, " Man
my jacket stinks like rotten Monkfish. [Laughter]" I explained,
"I made the mistake of grilling in my apartment last night
and the whole place was infested with smell. Let me put this retched
" He smiled in relief and the awkward
incident was over.
when I got home I still - believe it or not - had an urge to finish
the other half of the fish; waste not want not is a family illness.
I grabbed an extension cord, the grill and headed for the fire
As the sun disappeared, I set up the make shift grill and sat
with my flashlight. As a lovely nightfall breeze whipped about
me, mixing the foul fish with the succulent night Jasmine that
bloomed below, I was quite proud of my American ingenuity. Of
course I was also quietly stenching up the courtyard. Neighbors
were heard softly complaining that a skunk was afoot, or a sewer
had backed up
I slunk into the shadows avoiding notice swearing
this was last time Monkfish would be prepared by me - anywhere!