Usually, I walk out of my foster homes pretty unscathed. Today though, brought on another one of my fab faves about my job.
Now, one might usually find this phenomenon in the college cafeteria, or walking past The Chat, at Arcadia University.
I'm talking about the fried chicken smell that attaches itself securely to whatever you happen to be wearing that day. Tee Shirt? Jeans? Wool jacket? Buisness attire?
It smells great wafting from a foster parent's kitchen, and you're starving because its 6:30pm, and you haven't left "work" yet. I've had parents offer me food, and the professional thing is to politely decline. It would just open up a whole power dichotomy that could make things a little more difficult.
So I decline.
Once that scrumptious fried chicken smell leaves that kitchen though. Ick! Nothing like stale fried chicken smell on your wool coat.