The Scientific Method

As utilized in "The Case of the Vagabond Smell."

Having been utilized by many brilliant thinkers down through the yellowed pages of history, the Scientific Method seems to me to be a worthy recipient of my attention and study. Perhaps someday I shall be famous because of my groundbreaking discoveries. Perhaps someday I shall be in grave danger and be required to make quick, logical deductions based on evidence in order to preserve my health and happiness. Or perhaps I shall remain an ordinary Jane, and continue to solve household problems such as the one I am about to summarize—all with the aid of the simple process we call the Scientific Method.

One fine day, when the sun was shining, the birds were singing, and everything in general was going marvelously (as all things should), I walked by the kitchen on my way to the living room. Just as I was positioned opposite the doorway into the haven of culinary imagination, I stopped. I gasped. Something horrid was singeing my ten-year-old nose. A smell of incredibly revolting magnitude was assaulting my senses, thus I made one undeniable observation: Something smells terrible. Dozens of action plans raced through my mind as I stood there, nose wrinkled, sensibilities offended. Should I dash into the kitchen and frantically throw open all the windows, doors, and all such portals? Should I call the fire department? Should I take out the garbage? Should I call my shrink? Far from giving in to hasty tactics, I calmly deduced that I must first apply what I had learned in my fifth grade science class, namely the Scientific Method.

I realized that I had already made my observation: Something smells terrible. Therefore I proceeded to the next step as outlined by my teacher. Create multiple working hypotheses. Thus I began to guess as to what could be causing the ghastly smell coming from the kitchen. First, I proposed that the garbage was in need of “taking out.” One quick glance under the sink however, confirmed that the garbage had been emptied that very morning. Next I proposed to myself, “Perhaps someone left the limburger cheese open somewhere in the kitchen.” So I searched the kitchen from top to bottom—no cheese. Each time I eliminated a hypothesis, I realized that I was in effect, joining great scientists of the pasts in the common goal of finding out why and how things work. One by one, the possibilities on my list of hypotheses were confirmed erroneous and at last I was left with one, last, lonely, guilty-looking hypothesis. Warily I made my way across the room, past the pantry, past the refrigerator, past the sink and the items under the sink, until at last I was face-to-face with the big, black oven itself. The time of reckoning had come and I was ready. Before opening the door however, I called out to my sister who was blissfully reading a book—unaware of the momentous event occurring in her very own house.

“Anna,” I said excitedly, “I’m going to propose to you my theory,” I informed her and did my best to look important. This was a difficult task seeing that I was trying to stifle my giggles at the expression of disgust on her face and her fingers carefully pinching her nose shut. “You will notice that something smells terrible. I have been employed for the past half-hour, utilizing the Scientific Method in order to discover the source of this dreadful vagabond smell. After much careful experimentation, I am certain that there could only be one possible guilty party: the oven! I declare to you my trusted sister, my theory that the oven contains something simply ghastly.” She nodded, hoping to get this over with as quickly as possible. With a flourish I tossed open the oven door and bowed ceremoniously before the awed gaze of my big sister who would have clapped except that she was pinching her nose. There, in the oven, melted through the tray and dripping all the way to the bottom of the oven, was a mess of broccoli, cheese, rice, chicken, and plastic bowl, with a few bits of foil thrown in (for flavor no doubt). My theory was correct, and I walked out of my mother’s kitchen nearly bursting with pride at my use of the grand thing they call the Scientific Method.

Note: This essay was assigned for my Geology class. Don't believe a word of it--I seriously doubt that I gave the Scientific Method a second thought when I was ten years old.