The Halls Are Alive With The Smell Of Pot Roast

I will stop short of twirling around with my dress floofing tastefully, arms outstretched toward the upper hallway-wall concrete blocks, even though “How do you solve a problem like Mrs. Hillbilly Mom?” is frequently on many lips around my workplace.

Yesterday, the halls of Newmentia were permeated by a miasma of epic proportions. It was not the usual afternoon odor, the funk of sewer gas, enticed, or forced, out of the drains by a dry trap. That’s Farmer H’s theory, though he’s never set foot inside the hallowed halls while the malevolent mist is present. He does work with such entities, though, so he might actually know of what he speaks.

No, this nostril-tickler was a horse of a different color. I actually found it pleasant. Like a Sunday afternoon at the childhood home of Mrs. Hillbilly Mom. A Sunday afternoon when the meal of choice was pot roast, simmered with onions, carrots, and potatoes. Apparently, today’s youth have not had the pleasure of 52 weeks of deliciousness.

“Ew! What’s that smell?”

“It always stinks so bad in this hall!” Note: this is usually stated when the proclaimer is directly across from Mrs. Hillbilly Mom in the hallway.

“I smell hot dogs!”

“I hate this smell. It’s so GOOD!”

Yes. The majority of students could not distinguish between food being prepared for tonight’s Veterans’ Dinner and sewer gas. That is so very wrong. And may or may not be a statement of the quality of food preparation. I choose not. Because it sure smelled like food to me. I would have put my money on pot roast. Not that it’s a traditional veterans’ kind of meal. But because that’s the memory my nose cooked up. Not that I have any money to put on anything, what with buying two fundraiser candy bars a day this week. Caramel. One for The Pony, and one for me. I have a standing order with my supplier.
Today I found out that yesterday’s smell was actually onions sautéing with bacon and garlic powder. Such a disappointment. No pot roast for the veterans. They’re getting turkey and ham. And, apparently, a side of bacon and onions.

That’s where I am right now. Not eating dinner with the veterans. That was earlier this evening. Not that I ate. They did. Their turkey and ham and bacon and onions. I am at the patriotic concert, listening to The Pony slide his trombone, and assorted students lift their voices in appreciation. Not for The Pony. For the veterans.

We may be a few days late, but it’s the thought that counts.