October 23, 2014
Let me just say upfront, as husbands go mine is about as housebroke as they get. He does dishes. Laundry. Someday possibly even a toilet, but let’s not get crazy here. And yet, I am still baffled.
Why does he put little bits of leftover food in the refrigerator when he knows no human being in our household will ever consume them? Not once since the beginning of our cohabitation (which yes, was just after the beginning of time) has either of us ever eaten a leftover French fry. Not a single, slimy, wilted time. And yet he persists in stuffing the damn things into To-Go boxes at restaurants, as if even the dog wants to eat day old grease. For the love of our arteries, leave the fries, man.
Then there are the chicken nuggets. Our son almost never eats all of them. Always there are one or two left sad and neglected in their little paper box. The boy who would not eat them when they were as fresh as a chicken nugget can be (and let’s not think too hard about that concept)? That boy is not going to eat the same nuggets when they have been rubberized to steaming perfection in the microwave two days later. And yet, even as I type there is a fast food bag lounging on the second shelf of my refrigerator, the nuggets inside well on their way to petrification (assuming that is a word).
My husband never removes these odds and ends from the refrigerator for consumption by himself or anyone else in the household. As far as he’s concerned, this is a one-way portal. What goes in does not come out. So one has to wonder…where does he think they go? Does he assume it’s like an old school freezer, the kind that would eat away at your forgotten Popsicles until nothing was left but a stick coated in purple goo? Or perhaps he believes that deep in the night, our gangs of mice gather round to haul the door open and wine and dine on flat Pepsi and hockey pucks formerly known as McGriddles.
Or, and this is my favored theory, he believes there are trolls who live in the bottom drawer of the refrigerator. The one marked ‘Produce’, because God knows no one ever opens it so as far as we know, we could be harboring any number of loathsome creatures. When the menfolk are gone, the icebox trolls come grumbling and growling out of their lair to feast upon the remains of the not-so-happy-now meals, their faces screwed up into perpetual scowls of disgust as they make the tantalizing tidbits disappear.
Or possibly that’s just me, cleaning the refrigerator.
Kari Lynn Dell – Montana for Real