It was sort of the fault of the tortellini. I think. Or maybe the artichoke tapenade. What happened was, as is occasionally the case, the Engineer and I were stuck for a quick dinner, I was woozy with hunger from a long day without any time to eat (sleeping and working out come first), and we did something we often do, picked a stuffed pasta from the freezer and tossing it with some browned bits of vegan sausage, Parmesan and a vegetable relish. This time we mixed two, one with artichoke and tomatoes and one consisting only of coarsely comminuted tomato and garlic. Fergie is crazy for Parmesan so there is always entertainment value in this type of meal; he always gets his share of the grated cheese, and there’s your dinner entertainment. Big salad, and Bob’s your uncle. This was an especially serendipitous combo, with a hearty aroma that gladdened the hungry heart.
The next morning I noticed the house still smelt of it a bit at times — nothing surprising. I bucketed off to the gym, and, as one will alone in the car, popped one off at a stoplight — in the arena of cutting the cheese, little more than slicing into a lunchbox Bonbel or one of those square Laughing Cow travesties. It should have been inconsequential, but a rich, Italian-restaurant aroma rose unmistakably from the region of the car seat, accompanied by an eerie sensation of deja vu.
I have only experienced this phenomenon one other time; it involved some Swiss garlic soup that I made thirty years ago, prepared with steamed cauliflower, tomatoes, and two entire heads of fresh garlic simmered slowly to bring out their sweetness, then everything pureed in a blender. It was divine. I ate it for lunch. About nine in the evening, great gong-like explosions of gas commenced, fueled by the indoles in the cruciferous cauliflower. You could have been forgiven for believing I was cooking another batch of the soup. The garlic fumes would have stunned Count Dracula a block away. As I was opening windows a housemate entered and called from the foyer “Wow! Whatcha cooking? Can I have some?”
This was not so explosive, but persistent. I kept slinking around the gym pretending I hadn’t been where I’d been, until I found myself alone in the locker room and just let pressure completely equalize. Of course, that was the moment I heard entering footsteps. Inescapably busted, I winced, then saw that the woman in the doorway was wearing some ridiculous “I’m afraid of the flu” face mask and probably couldn’t smell anything but her own toothpaste.
Saved by germophobia.
There’s some of this stuff left over in the fridge but I’m not sure what to do. It tasted fabulous, but I work with the public.