We’ve been without a refrigerator in the kitchen for a week
and a half.
It just up and died, resisting all resuscitation efforts by
a qualified repairman. (For my attempt at fixing it, cursing like a sailor while
opening and closing the door had no discernable effect.)
As the interior temperature crept slowly upward, all our
perishables were removed and sorted
It was already too late to save two pints of Ben and
Jerry’s.
The basement freezer received three milk crates full of
lamb, beef, and containers of my own homemade chicken stock.
We crammed the tiny beverage fridge used for gatherings with
the most frequently opened dairy products, while the sketchy fridge – the one
that’s been unplugged because it freezes everything inside – was filled with condiments, potatoes,
onions, and a plate of leftover fried fish.
Anything edible and vegetable, or inappropriately squishy was
fed to the chickens.
I made a mental note that there are too many open bottles of
hot sauce and jars of pickled beets.
Both my husband Dan and I experienced renovations-from-hell deja
vu while running from one end of the house to the other just to make a cup of
coffee.
We elected to enjoy multiple takeaways and eating out; we
aren’t enthusiasts of roughing it when it comes to food.
Then, it all went frowny.
I was packing and shipping cheese in the back room and noticed
my box cutter on the counter.
Funny. I never leave it with the blade full out.
Then, I looked in the trash –the bin we never put food in because
it rarely gets emptied (you know what happens, as it gets warmer) - and there
lay plastic wrappings from a pepperoni stick and half a brick of cheddar cheese.
Alriiiight…so hubby had procured an evening snack with the
added excitement that comes from using an unsanitary cutting implement.
I breathed in deep, like all the stress therapy gurus
recommend, and let it all float away.
Then, I opened the door to the fridge and noticed the uneaten
portions of each item drying out, right beside a container of leftover Thai
shrimp with the lid askew.
Not the way I taught him to put food away, and I suspect,
not the way his mother did, either.
Frustratingly, a roll of plastic storage bags lay only a few
feet away.
I can forgive a lot of man-made mess - well, some - but making
more work for me makes my eye twitch.
All he had to do was carry a proper knife into the room; he knows
I’m the one who would clean it.
I called him out on his slovenly behavior; for trying to force
me off the deep end when I’m vitamin D deficient and seasonally affected, and for
secretly wanting to be caught like a child palming a cookie.
It’s never the one thing that drives me crazy; it’s all the
little things that pile up.
Dan’s response to the accusations?
He blamed everything on the cats.
