As we settle cozily into our homes, we spend this blessed time contemplating the meaningful part of winter: bacteria.

We’re past the endless holiday debate - do we cook the bacteria-laden stuffing inside or outside the turkey? Mention giblets and I have a slight problem with projectile vomiting. At least they’re called “giblets”. That’s more appetizing than their technical names: big red icky things.

This year, bacteria has a fresh meaning to me. One morning, Bob was terribly sick. The doctor said he had a bacterial infection of non-specific origin.

“NON-SPECIFIC ORIGIN?” I screamed at Bob.

“Yes.” He took antibiotics and fell asleep. I straddled his back and slammed his shoulders repeatedly into the pillow. “WHAT IS THIS BACTERIA FROM?” He didn’t know.

I trashed everything in the fridge that was blue or yellow, including cheese. “That’s blue cheese,” Bob said.

“The blue is mold, as in bacteria! Besides, it was cheddar.” I ran my finger around the lip of the spaghetti sauce jar to remove the blue ring of moldy fur. Then I put the jar back. “Red is fine.”

“What’s wrong with yellow?” he asked, as I smelled the butter.

“Hellooo?” I said, incredulously. “Picture something rancid. Old bacon, infected skin - what color is it?” He ran to the bathroom.

I had our moldy heating ducts cleaned and found an unfortunate answer to my question, “Where did the frogs go that lived in our fish tank?”

Thankfully the antibiotics worked. But the infection caused Bob to lose his ability to smell and taste. 

We tested his senses daily. We (I couldn’t let the poor guy go it alone) ate all the leftover holiday chocolate. We had pizza with the “works” - a lovely generic term coined by the guys in the kitchen for, “Who knows what these chunks are? If they’re red, they’re good to go.”

I held strong-smelling things (don’t ask) under his nose. While he was sleeping, I held up a bottle of maple syrup (his favorite food group). Startled, he woke up and knocked it on the floor. Our cats licked the syrup.

To prevent further syrup lapping (OK. I’m referring to myself at this point), Bob got the Lysol. He sniffed it. “I can smell!” he cried.

I shared his profound joy and said, “Now you can cook!”

“Why can’t you cook?”

“I have seasonal affective disorder.”

“What about spring, summer and fall?”

“That’s why it’s called seasonal!”

Now, Bob has phantom smells. He smells things that aren’t there. “Did you light a match?” he’ll ask all day. Or, “Is the oven on?” This makes my “something’s burning” phobia skyrocket. “Bob,” I finally said after smelling the cold oven for the millionth time. “Please get a different smell.”

“Did something die?” he now asks, looking behind furniture for decomposing mice or escapee angel fish.

In winter, germs become cryogenically dormant, only to awaken one spring day when crocuses rise and all species fall madly in love. Itsy bitsy bacteria open their sleepy eyes, yawn and stretch their tiny hands while looking around for the nearest human body’s orifice to crawl into with their loved ones and procreate.

Just remember my motto: Never eat anything yellow or blue. But any color of ice cream, since it’s frozen and the bacteria is dead, is A-OK.