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We had a small mishap last night, with effects out of proportion to the cause. Our kitchen garbage can filled, and I decided to double-bag the lot, partially because some of the contents were pretty old, and partially because I needed the extra space for the turkey carcass and some other odds and ends. The package contained a lot of food, some of it drippy, so a second, heavy-duty yard bag was clearly a smart idea.

Not smart enough, events proved: both bags sprang leaks, and some of the drippier contents dribbled out, creating a twisty trail of garbage juice across the kitchen floor, down the stairs, and out onto the porch. We didn’t realize the problem immediately, but eventually we traced the smell. I first scrubbed the floor with a radiation-green Mr. Clean product akin to Pine-Sol, but that proved insufficient; the odor softened, but still lingered. I had to go a second round with bleach, which took care of it. That’s all right for our tiled kitchen floor, but I’m afraid of what bleach will do to our darkly stained wood stairs—thank heavens they aren’t carpeted.

I may not have any choice. Between the lingering smells of garbage juice and the cleanser, our entryway has developed a tang that irrepressibly takes me back fifteen years, when my refrigerator went on the fritz. The problem was that I was in Eileene’s apartment at the time—she was away to visit her family, and asked me to house-sit in order to satisfy her parents’ paranoia. I lived in a less comfortable efficiency, so I was happy to stay there for the duration. Only upon returning to my own apartment did I discover the power was out. That was easily fixed; my landlord was a decent guy. From him, I learned that the whole building had shut down the day after I went to Eileene’s place, something about a broken line somewhere, and I hadn’t been there to confirm that my power had been restored when the time came.

So far, so good. Only afterwards did I notice the unpleasant smell. After a couple minutes spent sniffing around the apartment, I traced it to the fridge. The lower section was bad enough, but the freezer had a half-inch puddle of putrid meat juice. The stench as I opened the door was horrible, but not so horrible as the ordeal of trying to clean it out afterwards. It wasn’t my fridge; it came with the apartment. And, as I said, the landlord was a nice guy, so I didn’t want to saddle him with the cost of replacement.

So I scrubbed. And scrubbed. I used baking soda, Pine-Sol, bleach, vinegar, soapy water (hot and cold), everything. Nothing worked. I took suggestions from my friends. I pretty well wore out a box of scouring pads and another of sponges, which kept snagging on internal edges. My hands were raw for a week afterwards.

Smell is supposed to be the sense most closely tied to memory; the right scent can transport one more quickly and more completely to the past than any other stimulus. Perhaps so. I can certainly confirm that the first whiff I get as I enter the stairwell instantly takes me back to days of fruitless scrubbing and airing. Such a shame that the smell doesn’t whisk me away to a happier memory. Younger days, perhaps, but not a happier time, certainly not those few days. But then, what could I expect? It’s stinking garbage! If my happiest memories were associated with stinking garbage, I’d be a sad fellow indeed.