Nea Fane – Un Biet Român Pripășit în America / A Hapless Romanian Stuck in The US

       Four or five days ago, we rummaged through the freezer to grab a few things and see what else was in there, a sort of mini-inventory. With practiced efficiency, we quickly eliminated what needed to be disposed of and went happily about the rest of our day.

       Two days later, A Dog Named Gicu (also known as The Little Prince of Mesa), was chewing on something near the freezer under the watchful gaze of Baloo, The Great Protector. Casually, we ventured near him, and there was Gicu with a large bag of chicken breasts from Costco in his mouth. Clearly (and fortunately), he had been so completely overwhelmed by his discovery that he hadn’t yet sunk his teeth into them.

       Just as amazed, we quickly recovered the bag, scribbled “Dogs” on it, and tossed it into the fridge, thinking we’d deal with it the next day.

       Naturally, we forgot all about it.

       Last night, I pulled the bag out, opened it, and an unbearable stench wafted relentlessly throughout the entire kitchen. I barely had time to scratch my head – classic Romanian style – before the two dogs appeared beside me, posed in the most beautifully perfect “Sit” position imaginable, both drooling rivers. Even Gicu, who never craves treats (mainly because he constantly receives them), had left a little puddle in front of him.

       After a lightning-fast meeting in the kitchen (during which time we speedily analyzed the dogs’ passion for carrion and other shady things with feathers or fur) we unanimously decided to make a soup out of all of it. For the dogs, of course. 

       Before putting the chicken in the pot, however, I suggested soaking it in vinegar first, hoping to reduce the pungent smell. The boys’ disappointment was evident, especially when we, once again, put the meat in a container and shoved it into the fridge. We couldn’t leave it outside, as the less than fragrant aroma might well have summoned the police to our door. Inside, the stench had seeped into every corner, (no matter how hidden) and stubbornly refused to be evicted!

       With three scented candles and a tightly sealed container, we made it through the night. But, just in case, I had decided to use the back-up fridge.

       At the crack of dawn, I set the slow cooker up outside, precisely chopped the carrots, asparagus stalks, zucchini, celery, and some cabbage, added the thoroughly baptised chicken, and set the timer for eight hours. My beloved dogs were practically fainting with anticipation.

       By four in the afternoon, I brought the pot of soup inside. The dogs wagged their tails lazily, sniffed the air a bit, and then wandered off to wrestle.

       I, on the other hand, removed the lid, leaned in to take a sniff, and that’s how Irina found me: holding the lid in front of the pot, drooling rivers.

       It smelled absolutely divine!

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