In a tiny nutty shell

The plates sit crusty, caked together. The dried macaroni and barbeque sauce from a week of diners melds together and glues the ceramic dishes into one multicolored array. The loose silverware clinks merrily on the hard surface, unaware of the filth they swim in. One spoon is less fortunate. It lies in a congealed mash of ketchup and mashed potatoes; I think permanently part of the Chinese pattern. The stale smell stacks up and reminds of the many meals eaten in this kitchen.  Fresh laundry battles to overpower the stale smell that permeates the walls. Just how strong is Febreeze?