After putting River down to bed last night Thom and I walked out of his room and were hit with the rank aroma of burnt plastic. We followed the scent through the hall and down the stairs and couldn't find the source. It seemed to run throughout the house, warmer here, colder here. It was near bedtime for us, but we didn't want to go to bed before discovering the source of the horrible smell. We both imagined wires aflame in the walls, burning the house down while we slept.
I opened every door and drawer I could think of to no avail. Then, standing in the kitchen, trying to bloodhound my way to the smell, I felt the warmth of the dishwasher next to my legs and I knew I had found it. It was horrible. I opened the door and a huge wave gag-inducing horror hit me in the face. Apparently, a piece of plastic from the food processor had slipped through the bars and landed on the hot coils at the bottom of the machine. There, it melted like butter and fused itself to the coil.
Thom and I have no idea how we're going to clean this mess up. We can't pull the drawer of the dishwasher out because the plastic has it pinned in, and we can't get in there to remove the plastic because it's blocked by the drawer.
Here's the hilarious photographic evidence of my stupidity:
Our man in Washington
25 minutes ago