The kitchen is the heart of the home.
It can also give me heartburn. I’m not referring to my cooking … this time.
My family seems to dumb-down when they walk into the kitchen. I am the only person who knows when leftovers have gone bad (or how long they’ve been in the fridge). I will receive calls and texts asking me what is “okay” to eat. They aren’t asking permission, mind you, they just don’t want E. coli. I have had to whisper into my phone while in a meeting or conference, “Yes, the pizza is safe to eat but steer clear of the mac-n-cheese.”
My youngest is the expiration-date-checker. He will give a shout-out when the milk has expired; then put the jug back in the fridge.
Pig-farmer will slop leftovers over the side of the container and not wipe it up. This causes me to break my fingernails when I think I can simply, casually, pull a bowl of soup out of the fridge, not knowing it has cemented itself onto the glass shelf.
My oldest son is very talented at the art of illusion. I glance into the pantry to see boxes of cereal, Pop-Tarts and granola bars. Later, after grocery shopping, I realize they are just that – boxes – empty boxes! He also likes the middle piece:
Last night, pig-farmer actually told me to “put his supper on a plate when he works late, so he doesn’t have to wash the pans.” There were, count ’em, two. Uhm, let’s see, we have been without a functioning dishwasher for a year now (point made), I made a hot supper (score another point), washed up all dishes that I could up to that moment (point tallied), prepared the coffee pot for the morning’s brew (point, point), completed animal chores (sigh, another point) all after arriving home late from work myself (“It’s a three!! WOOT, WOOT.”)
And the trash. Boy-howdy, do we generate some trash. It is played like a strategic game of Jenga.
We also recycle. Make that, I recycle. The extra, oh, 2 feet to the recycling containers is just daunting.
Pig-farmer occasionally announces that he is going to take over grocery shopping as he feels he can get better buys out of town. He once drove an hour to a store that was going to put us on our way to financial peace … only to discover it had changed into the same store as our local grocery store. I hee-hawed like Happy, the donkey, over that one.
He hasn’t grocery shopped since. I shouldn’t have laughed.