Last night's french onion soup was sheer heaven on a plate, but I do not recommend that you make it for yourself.
This morning, Mr Tabubil and I stink.
Everything we wore to cooking class last night smells heavily of onions.
Everything we put on last night after we got home from cooking class reeks of onion flatus. Deep and complex and rich and layered and green.
As does our hair.
And our skin.
And our bed - oh lord - I snuggled down next to Mr Tabubil this morning and as the covers shifted, I just about fainted. I rolled over to tell him so and he almost passed out from the fart-and-sulpher miasma that beat the words past my tonsils.
We are doing a lot of washing this morning and we are deep-six-ing all of the leftovers. I shed tears as I watched the croutons slid into the rubbish bin, but we both have to go to work today - and we both care to keep our jobs.
The soup was delicious, but ultimately, not worth the cost. Unless you live alone, somewhere out on a desert atoll in the middle of the Pacific Ocean. In which case - go ahead. I bear no responsibility for what your off-gassing is going to be doing to the reef.