I didn’t mean to do it, but it almost happened. Almost. I stood in the middle of our apartment kitchen, cooking away my favorite lemon-pepper chicken. When it comes to cooking lemon-pepper chicken, I am a beast at it. It’s one of the two meals that I’m really good at cooking. The other meal? Spaghetti.
My roommate turns to another one of our roommates, Beth, and asks her if she smells something. “It smells like something has died.”
“Yeah, I smell it.”
My roommate then turns to me and asks me the same question. No, I smell nothing but lemon and pepper.
After desperately searching for the source of the stench, my roommate comes to the chicken I have sitting on the counter.
“Ummm, Aly? It’s your chicken. It’s gone bad.”
Crap.
I looked at the almost-done chicken in the skillet. It looked and smelled so tasty, but it would be so deadly if I ate it. Sighing, I picked up the uncooked chicken and threw it into the garbage. After one final glance, I scraped the chicken off the skillet and into the trash.
As I ate my side dish of rice as my main course, I knew I would never forget this night. This was the night that I almost poisoned myself.
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