Trust me, I am just as concerned about this one as you are!

I love my uncles cooking, he's really the best cook I know, I'd venture to even say that he is a better cook than my grandmother was, and that is saying a lot, specifically since if you've been reading you know that I am from an Italian family and it's borderline blasphemy to even think that someone may be able to throw down in the kitchen better than granny. But he totes is! I moved from like four towns away to just one two away from him a couple months ago and I have been reaping the tastual (it's a word now!) benefits as regularly as possible since.

On my birthday I went over for cake and food, and he had left over chicken noodle soup that I promptly offered to take off his hands instead of him having to freeze it. I'm just generous like that. A couple days later upon returning home from a long day of basically doing nothing I heated up my soup and proceeded to eat it curled up on my sofa while I watched some rom-coms on Netflix.

I nommed my soup like it was the first and last time I would ever eat anything so tasty, knowing that I served my self way more than I could comfortable finish but I pushed the limits of my tummy as much as I could because I didn't want to imagine a moment with out that warm utopia in my mouth for even a second. When I finally had to declare defeat there was about 1/8 of a cup left in my bowl and it smelt and looked as good as the first slurp did. Now by nature I try to avoid being wasteful, as a child I always had a self imposed guilt about not finishing the food on my plate because around the age of four I had seen a special on PBS bring awareness to the alarming number of homeless children in America, so I spent the better part of the late 80s being very cautious about the size of servings I took.

So this residual guilt still lingers with me as a woman in my late 20s. I reconcile this by giving a lot of my low calorie left overs to my dog in lieu of her late evening dinner (she eats three times a day, smaller portions than normal because she basically a pain in the ass and will bother me to eat either way.)

So Bella was lucky on this particular night, I just couldn't eat anymore so Bella Lapped up the rest.

Later that night while I lay in bed I got a whiff of a familiar smell, all of a sudden I could smell...the soup?

It was faint, but distinct, no doubt in my mind it was soup, but where was the smell coming from? The smell had dissipated, or at least I didn’t smell it any more. I chalked it up to a residual memory and wish full thinking to have more room to enjoy its soupy goodness.

A few moments later, there it was again, but this time it was stronger, it was most def a real odor, unless I recently suffered from a closed brain injury that I wasn't aware of, it was there. But again where was it coming from? I climbed out of bed, switched on the light and went to the kitchen to examine my dishes in the sink, I had rinsed them all, no traces of broth, noodle, or seasoning. There wasn't any spilled on my tank that I was wearing while eating. Yet again I could not determine a source, so I just dismissed it again, and got back into bed.

I was pretty close to a full on doze when I heard a soft familiar whistle come from the foot of the bed, Bella was the gassiest dog I've ever met, she farted constantly, often silent, but noticeable quickly. When one would sneak out that was louder than she was used to, she would jump up, look behind her then at who ever was in the room with her like they were some kind of ass hole (pun intended!) for making such a disturbing noise.

I braced myself for the awfulness that often followed her whistles, to lazy to get up to get air freshener, it would pass, and I can practice holding my breath.

I inhaled deep to fill my lungs with air so I could let it out slowly to extend how long prohibited ventilation. But it was too late, the smell had already defused to the top of the bed, as I inhaled my lungs and mouth filled with the scent of her gas... It wasn't a normal fart though, it smelt so recent... It smelt like the soup!!

The high-speed particles she release from her Bowles, retained the exact oderal makeup of the soup she had only recently ingested.

For the first time in her 126 months (hahah) the scent of her fart did not incapacitate me, instead it filled me with a minor, all be it substantially disturbing, sense of nostalgia for my yummy dinner... I am also pretty grossed out that this happen, but honestly, I had more soup the next day, this time a more accurate helping that I could handle, and it was just as yummy, not tainted in the least by the events of the night before.

And it really made me love my uncles cooking all the more, how do you not appreciate something that's just as pleasant on the way out as it was going in?

Go ahead, Judge me, I judge myself on this one.