I am so overloaded. Not just the usual butter, milk and eggs… no sir, not me, not in this house. Madame likes to cook. It used to be, when the family was here, when the mister was here, that I would be filled and emptied regularly. Not anymore. Stuff that never used to be kept cool now sits on my shelves. Madame took a course, and someone put a bee in her bonnet about unstable oils. So now the walnut oil, the sesame oil, the peanut oil—which has turned all cloudy—adorn my bottom shelf.
The dog kibble. The cat kibble. All her Chinese and other oriental condiments, liquids and flavorings. She even makes food for the dogs—BARF she calls it, and wraps individual servings of it in Glad Wrap and freezes them.
How excruciatingly efficient.
She cooks everything from scratch, then freezes individual portions. I’ve got enough meals in my upper regions to last her a couple months. Homemade biscuits. Breads. Rolls. No Atkins or Keto diets here.
And she keeps going out and buying more. All she really needs is butter, milk and eggs, but she brings home stinky cheeses, fruits, vegetables—even stores Vidalia onions in my bottom drawer. Onions, for heaven’s sake. Who ever heard of refrigerating onions?!
And the icemaker? Mister used to like ice in his drinks, but she never uses ice. Too cold, she says. Well, what does she expect? Except the cubes just sit there, get fuzzy and stick together. The mass that’s in there now is so solid she’s going to have to empty the freezer and take the shelf out to the bin loose.
And does she ever clean me? Wipe me out? Nah, not unless I throw a light bulb at her or drop the middle drawer when she pulls it out. Then she might notice. Or like the time the onion skins got so deep she lost a small bag of snow peas in the pile and didn’t find it until they had all turned brown and slimy.
I did it once before, and I swear I’ll do it again. If she doesn’t take better care of me, I’m going to let loose and leak all over her floor.
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