By Patsy R. Brumfield/NEMS Daily Journal
This past weekend, I was lamenting my massive pickle project had turned my house into a vinegar-spice vat.
I muttered and mumbled about what I was going to do about it. I even asked my Facebook friends for advice.
One laughed that the cops were likely to get a whiff and look closer into my “pickle lab.” I’ve certainly never smelled a meth lab, but it can only be a few degrees worse than what I had wrought.
Anyway, in the midst of this smelly dilemma, the first obvious step was to cook the pickle brew outside. Genius.
Luckily I possess a very cute little gas-canister powered stove I acquired for tailgating, especially to make hot chocolate on those cold game days. Although my ardor for tailgating has subsided from the mania I possessed back in the early part of this decade, the gear I acquired continues to come in handy.
So, Saturday, there I was, out on my front porch making pickles atop my wrought iron table. It all worked very well, but I’m still wondering what the postman must have thought when he gazed upon the one-eyed stove, big ole cook pot and three jars of green stuff waiting to cool down.
Afterward, I acquired enough sense to store the leftover pickle brew in a sealed container, thus preventing its aromas from wafting throughout my downstairs.
Sunday morning early, I got in a real mood to fight the funk, so I set about a major housecleaning campaign.
When I actually scrub the kitchen cabinets, you know I’m serious. Even got out the steam-heat floor scrubber my sister so kindly gave me because she thought it was too hard to push.
Now, five days later, I think I’m making progress.
But it answers a question I’ve long had drifting around in the gray cells about why our McComb neighbor, Wilbur Pickett, made hot sauce on the school grounds between our houses.
For years, I’d see Wilbur build a cook fire on the barren playground – empty during the summertime. He loved really spicy food, especially hot sauce, so he made his own to suit his taste.
He’d brave the season’s heat for the culinary kind, and I often wondered why he wasn’t laboring in the comforts of his own kitchen.
Answer: Gladys, his wife.
After my pickle-fog experience, I realize Gladys sent him outside because she didn’t want her kitchen all funked up with the hot-sauce making. Plain and simple.
Wish I’d realized that before I started my own science experiments.
My brother suggested I just repaint the downstairs with that odor-killing paint.
I may go there later than sooner, but right now, I think the scrubbing, the steam-cleaning and the Febreze have lifted the veil.
Contact Patsy R. Brumfield at (662) 678-1596 or email@example.com. Read Patsy’s blog, From the Front Row, on NEMS360.com and follow her on Twitter and Facebook.