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“Ugh! What stinks?” asked my son pinching his nose. “It smells like something died in here!”
I glared at him. I had spent the past 20 minutes looking in every nook and cranny in the kitchen to find the source of the stink. I had gotten a whiff of it when I came downstairs to make breakfast, confident that the dog had done something unmentionable. But there was no evidence of a doggy felony anywhere and there were no obvious culprits in the fridge or elsewhere, either. Whatever it was, it threatened to tarnish my spotless reputation as a domestic goddess extraordinaire. Yes, my house looked clean. But it smelled like a hot day in an Odor Eaters testing site. Not an appealing smell unless you have a foot fetish…
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