“You and your bionic nose,” he scoffed.
“I’m telling you, baby, something is MOLDY in there!” I whined.
Every time I opened the fridge, the whiff of mold socked me in the mouth. I was five feet away folding laundry, and my oldest son opened the fridge, and I could still smell it, even from there.
We tossed an old bag of cilantro and a few old carrots that fell out of the bag and became gunky, but the smell seemingly persisted. My nose was assaulted every door opening, and my husband grew tired of my complaints.
So he did what any sexiest husband alive would do – he grabbed the spray, the microfiber towel, a garbage bag, and he got to work, scrubbing the fridge for me while I tended to the eleventy-billion other things I was already working on. In fact, I didn’t even know he was full-on cleaning the fridge completely out until he was taking apart the middle shelf, having already completed the drawers. This is what I saw:
I swooned, I won’t lie.
He didn’t dig the job, he confessed to me, but fifteen minutes later, everything was perfect, everything was reorganized and easier to grab, a fresh box of baking soda was placed in the door, and mom’s nose was happy once more.
A belated Christmas gift to me, perhaps?