Don't Eat the Potpourri

[shesingsnow]

In 1988, my family rented a house on Capitol Island in Maine, just outside of Boothbay Harbor. It was a lovely setting in a house that reeked of three floors of mildew. My mother kept a pot of orange peels, cinnamon sticks, and cloves simmering for two weeks.

Last night, we hosted a Dungeons & Dragons game. Food delivery wasn't available because it was New Year's Day, so I made a chili, cornbread, and rice. Tortilla chips were offered on the side. Crockpot with the chili was on the stove, next to a small saucepan with a Maine-style concoction.

My dear, beloved man, the Dungeon Master, served himself a bowl of chili with a healthy helping of potpourri on top of it.

I took a side glance at his bowl and thought "gosh, those tortilla chips sure puffed up." I took a second glance. And a third. Then my body curled in on itself in revulsion when I realized what he'd done. I'd even brushed a tiny bit of mold off of this particular orange, before I peeled it.

He'd gamely eaten one cinnamon-laden orange peel and accepted that parts of the meal must simply taste awful.