Who likes cleaning out refrigerators and freezers?
Not me. And especially, not mine.
But I refuse to feed my garden’s fresh veggies to whatever life forms lurk in fridge and freezer.
I review my checklist. Bucket of hot water and disinfectant. Rubber gloves. Body armor. Samurai sword. Hey, past-expiration yogurt gets testy when evicted.
I also don an apron sewn by my husband’s grandma. A gentle soul, she nevertheless fought a fierce, lifelong war against germs and dirt.
Her brave spirit pokes me with a scrub brush. “Be strong!”
I straighten, grab my sword and slowly crack the fridge’s door.
Nothing stirs, but I’ve been fooled by silence before.
I throw it open wide.
Ack! Half-filled bottles of lavender salad dressing. Pudding that resembles petri dishes. Mashed potatoes that give a whole new meaning to the term “green vegetable.”
Did something move? A-a-a-a-a-ack!
My chance of survival seems better in the garage, where I slowly open the freezer. No tentacles. I lay down my sword, though I won’t remove body armor or apron.
I summon Golden Oldies to fool my back and muscles into thinking they’re young. A rhythmic tune boogies me across the garage: “Mission Impossible.”
My Cold War almost morphs into peaceful coexistence when the song changes to the “Purple People Eater.” Will Hubby return to find nothing but my eyeglasses and piles of defrosted food? Will he weep more for my demise or the expensive loss of pot roasts?
Thankfully, the music changes to the Star Wars theme: Da, da, da-da-da da da! Retying my mighty apron, I plunge into the freezer’s alternative universe.
White, amorphous, furry-looking packages meet my eyes, their age detectable only by carbon dating. Identifiable or not, each package/container evokes a question:
- Why did I shred four dozen bags of zucchini? My husband hates zucchini bread.
- Do Thanksgiving and Christmas turkeys grow exponential sets of giblets?
- Did this single serving of tuna casserole preexist with God in the beginning?
While pondering cosmic questions, I toss out piles of mystery food, moving to the pulsating background of “You’re No Good.” “A Hard Day’s Night” demands endless elbow “Grease,” but eventually the fridge, freezer and I graduate to “Splish Splash.” We revel in unfamiliar spotlessness.
I play H-O-R-S-E with the giblets, shooting them into trash cans. Alas, in attempting a three-pointer, I hit a garbage man.
He doesn’t seem to take my poor aim personally, though he dives for the truck. It roars off to background strains of “Hey hey hey, goodbye. …”
Your Extraordinary Ordinary: Have you done recent cleaning combat? (If not recent, I won’t tell.)