Wednesday, February 1, 2012

Overcrowding

"Smell it, Carl. Would you guess that was the ham we baked back in 01'?"
Morning Readers,

     Since becoming a housewife, I've been astounded, time and time again, at how many hidden talents my new calling has brought forth. For example, I can change a roll of toilet paper before the last one's hit the trash can, and have developed an itching behind my right knee that tells me when one of the kids is playing in the diaper pail. More importantly, I've become a collector of sorts: movie stubs, weekend mailers for a free bikini wax, used dryer sheets. But there's no collection I'm more proud of than my collection of condiments.

     I take great pride in the set-up and organization of my condiment collection. When I convince someone to visit, especially if they're not sure they want to be my friend yet, I always drag them to the kitchen, and position them in front of the refrigerator. Usually, they say something like, "That's a cute picture your kids drew."

     To which, I respond, "Thanks, I worked on it all afternoon."

     "Well, that's a nice deer."

     "It's a dog standing next to the sun," I have to point out.

     Either or, once that's aside, I fling the door open and begin the tour from bottom shelf to top. If the person's name is Imogen, I'll say, "My dear Imogen, you'll notice I keep all milk, juice and tonic water on the bottom shelf."

     She nods. "But how do you fit thirty-eight jugs down there? Aren't some of them expired?"

     "They're arranged in order of importance. For instance, that 2% jug is from Christmas of 2005, a particularly good year. The three tonic waters behind it are from the summer I tried to quit drinking. I believe that was 2011."

     She shakes her head. "You don't throw any of it out?"

     "Goodness, no. Everything in here has sentimental value," I say, as I pour her a glass of egg nog from 04'. "Nog?"

     While she's shaking her head at the offer, I continue. "The next shelf up harbors the salad dressing forest I built, myself. No one ever believes me, but I've amassed seventy-three different varieties. Husband calls it our "Greatest Achievement".

     "Not your children?"

     "Imogen, did you not hear me say seventy-three different kinds? Do you think one just falls into a Newman's Own Butternut Squash Parsley Medley? Do you know what it is to have your pallet write you a thank you note?" 

     Our tour rounds the bend at the barbeque shelf. "All aboard," I yell. "Keep your hands where I can see them, Imogen, because what you see before you is one hundred different kinds of sauce. We usually only use one kind, but we're from Kansas City, which gives us license to own every kind and tell you exactly what's wrong with what you're putting on that steak."

     My guest is usually quite overcome at this point, so I move to the kudegra, and seal our friendship. "Behold, the Tower of Butter, flanked by it's servants of mustard."

     "But you only have three sticks of butter up there. And, is that a dead fly?"

     Head inclined, I consider. "The Tower of Butter is a place not oft frequented. We usually eat the Really Can't Believe It's Not Butter Even Tho It's Yellow, so we leave the real butter in peace. It's a special, tranquil place. The fly simply came here to die."

You can see why I have so many friends...
  
So, what's the state of your condiment door, drawer, or shelves?

Until Next Time, Readers!