Back when I was living in my first apartment, senior year of college, I was still what most would refer to as a functional retard
in a kitchen, though I was quickly learning under the apprenticeship of a local chef at the time.
Chef Jim had, many months prior, introduced me to the idea of preserving fruit. Thinking this a brilliant concept
, I put together a massive preserving jar of lemons, and put on top of my fridge to do its thing. (You can probably guess where this is going.)
One day, six months later, I went to get a drink from the fridge. Evidently, the jar full of lemons had migrated
, that bastard jar, to the front-top of the refrigerator and was half-balancing, precariously, on the closed door.
I opened the door, and the jar of lemons falls on my fucking head
, and then proceeded to tear a path of wanton destruction down the refrigerator door, ripping out two shelves full of condiments (and by condiments, we're talking fish sauce, chili sauce, mayonnaise, mustard, I seem to recall some sweet pickle relish and giardiniera as well), and they all smashed together on the bottom of the fridge and my tile kitchen floor.
The resulting smell in my kitchen was utterly unholy, so vile that it could raise Lenin and Stalin from the dead only to kill them all over again. The smell of fish sauce, chili sauce, mayonnaise, mustard and giardiniera all being collectively trumped by roughly one ton of candied lemon is something that I never, ever
want to experience again for the rest of my days on Earth. And it lingered. Oh, did it linger. For about a month after that, I declined to host any female guests at my place, coming up with all manner of excuses.
Between that stench and the massive headache I got from that jar colliding with my head, I learned my lesson: Preserved lemon can go get fucked right now.