Cleverly Using this Post to Avoid Cooking Breakfast. It’s an Art.

Because I am so efficient and productive working from home on Fridays (future employers, take note), I had some spare time in the afternoon. I’ll find just about any reason not to exercise these days–carpal tunnel, no clean socks, my running shoes still have dog poop on them–so I decided to clean out the refrigerator. I can’t remember exactly when I last cleaned out a refrigerator. Ok, that’s a lie. The last time I cleaned out a refrigerator was when we moved out of our apartment into this house. In June. Meaning the refrigerator we’re currently using has collected all manner of leftovers for the past three months.

And you know what? Life has some hard hitting lessons to teach you from inside a six-week old Pyrex container.

1. Why do we continue to save things that we know will eventually become waste?  Every time we have leftovers, we scrounge around for another container, look for another ten minutes for the matching lid, settle for tin foil when the lid is eternally misplaced, and slide it on top of another three containers that we haven’t touched since they were put in the refrigerator. Why the seemingly useless routine?

I think it’s because we’re hopeful. We don’t want to waste things; we know we shouldn’t. And so we try to do our part. Every night that two helpings of rice are left in the pot is a chance to do better, to be better, to make our little three-bedroom corner of the world a little cleaner, a little less wasteful, and a little more conscious. Of course, days like yesterday–when the pile of aged leftovers fills two garbage bags and the dirty containers require two rounds in the dishwasher–prove discouraging. But you know what I’m really thinking about with the extra space and newly scrubbed bowls? Just how much of tonight’s uneaten pizza will end up teetering on top of the condiment row and not in the trash.

2. We are in a culinary rut. It’s just like those three semesters in college when I ate nothing but fig newtons and blueberry bagels. It was easy, and I got comfortable. (I also fell into a carb coma around 3pm every day.) Of the 13 or so containers I cleaned out, three meals were represented. Three. It’s no shock to the world that I hate cooking and recycle my carpal tunnel excuse to avoid time in the kitchen, too. And Clayton is lucky to get home before it’s time for breakfast, so between the two of us, gourmet experimentation just isn’t on the agenda. Tacos, meatloaf, and spaghetti. The other 80% of our diet is pizza. I mean, it’s truly collegiate. I wish I had the motivation or skill to declare a change. But I’m already working on a way to use my smelly running shoes to keep me away from the stove tonight.

Yes, yet another reason why a baby in the mix could really screw with our world. I’ve got a hunch they can’t eat pizza for at least the first three months.

3. Mold can grow on just about anything. Depending on how much of a germaphobe you are, you’d either be pleasantly surprised (me!)  or downright horrified (Grandma Hall) by the percentage of containers that had begun to develop some sort of inedible colony of fungal townhome complexes. The homeowner’s fees were reasonable, but the parking sucked.

Now if I could spend the rest of the weekend cleaning out both bathrooms, washing all the linens, finding an industrial strength vacuum to get Bryson hair out of all fabrics throughout the house, and a street sweeper to run over all the hardwood, I’d probably be able to write a book of life lessons.

On second thought, I’d rather stick to a postcard titled “Insight is Overrated. What’s the Number to Molly Maid?”