I love to cook. I am in the kitchen whenever possible. While there, I stir soups. I simmer stews. I baste beef. I poach pork. I flip flapjacks. I boil bouillabaisse. I charbroil chicken. I occasionally cajole a casserole. Several of my dishes call for the basic herbs and spices and quite often, a good onion is required. This was the case with my ham and beans on Saturday.
I tasted the beans, added salt, and tasted again. Something was missing. Onions! The beans needed onions. And so, I sliced, I split, I chopped, and minced. Add and simmer. Perfect.
And this is where the problem began. After my culinary arts were complete, I washed my hands with soap and water. I dried them on a clean towel but the smell of the onion remained. That night I washed my face, brushed my teeth, allowed the minty-freshness to cover my hands. I rinsed and dried but onion remained.
In the middle of the night, I awoke to the lingering scent of onion.
In the morning, I bathed and washed my hair, scrubbing with vigor. Again, I dried and dressed but the onion stench will not leave.
As I sit here this morning, I find that the onion is still on my hands. Nothing can get it off. I may forever be known as Onion Boy.