Capers

My dad has a couple self-assigned chores around the house. Cable routing, electrical rewiring…all tasks befitting an electrical engineer.

He does, however, really like to clean out the refrigerator. It’s a very ritualized process, and oddly enough, gives him a certain OCD-satisfaction. Restoring order and cleanliness to a fridge gone mad with decaying produce, gone-over milk and leftovers of unidentifiable origins.

Since I moved in almost a year ago, I’ve flashed back to my dad cleaning the fridge every time I opened our fridge. Ok, sometimes I think “Where the hell is the rest of my beer?” or “Hm. Oreos for dinner again.” More often than not though, it’s “Jesus Christ, it’s a petri dish in there. And there appears to be basic lifeforms crawling out of the condensation that’s collected in the bottom of the fridge.” And then I shut the door.

Tonight, however, it was positively shitting out. Meteorologists insist on calling these weather conditions “snow mixed with freezing rain.” I call it “Shit that makes me look up job listings in San Diego.”

Puxatawny Phil is such a little bitch.

So yes, what does a young single woman do on a Friday night in NYC? Clean her fridge, of course. See?

Well, hm, that seems to be sideways. But you get the general gist. You will also note that we have a lot of condiments. I have a theory that condiments breed when you’re not looking. How else can you explain two bottles of I Can’t Believe It’s Not Butter?

The funny thing about living with roommates is that you’re always surrounded by their stuff. Or stuff that doesn’t belong to you, and quite possibly doesn’t belong to anyone in the apartment. It’s just sort of rooted there, like the toadstools that spring up around rotting tree trunks. Take, for example, this bottle of capers:

These have been in the back of the fridge since I moved in last May. I’ve never seen anyone eat them. And that is a huge amount of capers. Possibly a lifetime supply of capers. Several lifetimes. Who needs that many capers? Who buys that many capers at once — and leaves an almost full jar behind? Why are they still here?

This is actually something I ponder on a regular basis. It’s quite possible I lack a meaningful inner life.

I’m also starting to wonder why the new roommate buys sugar-free/fat-free everything. And why she’s gone through two cans of fat-free whip cream in one week. (Given the phentremine and Trim-Spa in the bathroom cabinet, diabetes doesn’t seem likely as, well, EATING DISORDER.)

The capers really do have to go, however. They’re starting to look like miniature preserved gallbladders. Almost as unappetizing as my other roommate’s bologna. I mean, really. Who eats bologna?