Robin Likes to Talk

You, Me and the Stench of Broccoli

“PHEW! WHAT THE HELL IS THAT SMELL?!?” This was the first question he had asked when he came home from work. The smell had lingered and I hadn’t noticed. “What’s it smell like?” I asked. I actually won’t repeat what he said. “I don’t know what the smell could be, it’s not the trash and the only thing I cooked today was roasted broccoli for breakfoooooohhhh”. Little did I know the stench of oven roasted broccoli was lingering. “Well turn on the fan, its smelling up the house”, he was annoyed. “What, you don’t like the smell of my breakfast?” He gave me a look and cursed a few words. “I take that as a no?” “You don’t like my stench?” He hates it when I get snarky right when he gets home from work.

A simple task, to turn on the fan when I roast broccoli. I hadn’t told him the fan over the oven was possessed and once it’s turned on it won’t turn off. I also hadn’t told him the stench of my broccoli rates right up there with the stench of his hard boiled or scrambled eggs bleh.

I never realized how bad the stench of roasted broccoli was until one day I ran to the store after breakfast and when I came home I thought I was going to gag. The instantaneously slap of previously roasted broccoli stench that hit my nostrils made me uncontrollably wretch and my eyes started to water. This is the stench he was talking about.

Oh I need to turn the fan on. Even I can’t tolerate the after stench of my own breakfast. It doesn’t even smell like broccoli. It smells like…like dirty socks or a locker room or something. It does not smell like broccoli. Even the bacon and sweet potatoes I cooked with it, doused in cinnamon don’t drown out the stench. The smell is far from pleasant one may experience during the holidays of vegetables, cinnamon and bacon grease. Nope this is straight raunchy, back street boys locker room. It’s raunchy enough to make the polish on my toenails curl.

The overhead fan must come on even though I may not be able to turn it off after. Then the drone of the fan will carry on throughout the night, driving me to insanity and sleep will be lost since the kitchen is next to our bedroom. Persistance will persevere with the pounding of the button, cursing under my breath the need for sleep and why this particular bedroom had to be near the kitchen and who’s dumb idea was it when the house was being built? It will eventually turn off if I hit it enough times and the quiet will overwhelm me into a deep slumber. Finally, it shuts off. Until the next time.

I am sure you’re asking, “who eats broccoli for breakfast?” I do. That’s who.

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