 This is almost as difficult as telling my son what happens when a
man and a woman are in bed with each other. I managed to do that
without too much fallout. His only response was, "Oh, gross! What if
they wake up while that's happening?!"I guess I needed to add a
little clarity, but we got through it. But this ... this is another
story.
It's time to clean out the refrigerator. I open the door and peer
inside. Lots of places for refrigerator monsters to hide. There
might be one in the vegetable bin, where a head of lettuce has been
fermenting since the last time we had a salad. Considering the fact
that the kids think eating vegetables is a form of torture and my
husband and I don't eat salads unless we're on a diet, that lettuce
has been sitting there a while. Once I free it from that organic
glue that keeps it stuck to the bottom of the bin, it'll probably
leak some noxious brown juice.
Speaking of vegetables: How long do onions last? If they shrivel
up like my grandma's underarms, is it time to toss them? Or can we
wait until they are oozing brown liquid as well?
Maybe I should start with the easy stuff. Any salad dressings
that have an expiration date anywhere between "Holy cow!" and "Oh
... my ... gawd!" should be tossed (no pun intended). You wouldn't
think there'd be too many of those, considering the lack of
enthusiasm for salads in my house. But every time we have a salad, I
buy new dressing because, well, the old one had probably expired,
right?
After 86-ing the expired salad dressings, I find that I have room
in the door shelves for the pickles and olives that have been taking
up space on my milk shelf. Dill pickles don't last long in my house
-- they are the closest thing to a vegetable that my kids will eat
-- but I have to chuck the gherkins. Gherkins are generally served
in a relish tray on holidays. Nobody ever eats them, but there's
some kind of rule that you can't have a relish tray without your
gherkins.
Next to go are the jars of pizza sauce and applesauce that are
half-full of product. The other half is some gray, fuzzy stuff that
I'm pretty sure no one will eat.
[to top of second column]
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 By this time my trash bin weighs about as much as a small
construction vehicle. I'm envisioning my husband trying to take out
the trash later this evening. The last time I cleaned out the
refrigerator, it took him 20 minutes to haul that bag out to our
cans. If not for the sounds of broken glass, the trash men might
have thought we'd hidden a body in there.
That thought makes me smile, because if I've got to do this
disgusting task, I figured that my husband should have his share of
misery as well. Why? Because I'm a bad wife.
My smile stops abruptly as I realize that I had not gotten to the
hard part yet: those "mystery containers." You know. Those 6 million
"I Can't Believe It's Not Butter" tubs that are filled with
unrecognizable leftovers from the Cold War.
I wouldn't hesitate to throw each and every one in the trash
without even looking inside, because, well, "not-butter" tubs are a
dime a dozen at my house. It's not like I'm never going to buy
"not-butter" again. The problem lies in the fact that at least one
of those tubs actually has "not-butter" in it. Maybe more than one.
In fact, there might be one that's never been opened. That would be
like finding a lottery ticket in your refrigerator!
Gingerly I take each one out and shake it. If it shakes, I add it
to the tonnage in my trash can. If not ... if not, I have to look
inside. If I don't spy a creamy, yellow, "not-butter" color, I close
the lid quickly so as to stifle any smells that may have ambitions
of escaping and flying up my nose.
By the time my husband comes home, I've seen every possible
variety of mold and have been intimately introduced to their
respective odors.
"What's for dinner?" he asks.
Trying to hold back the urge to vomit, I look at him
reproachfully and say, "There's a trash bag over there that's
calling your name."
[By LAURA SNYDER]
You can reach the writer at
lsnyder@lauraonlife.com
Or visit www.lauraonlife.com
for more columns and info about her books. |
