I’m afraid of my vegetable bin.
Everything has a breaking point. Everything has that fine line beyond which more cannot be taken.
I believe I am well past this point with the vegetable bin.
I swear by the holiest of holies (Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups) that my intentions are good: healthy, nutritious meals. Side dishes of lean, fibery goodness. Fresh fruit to lead to rosy cheeked children ready to learn.
In my imagination I am also wearing pumps and I vacuum all day wearing pearls and dresses with full skirts.
And if you look down you’ll see my pavers that say “good intentions” on them leading right along the path to that fiery pit of hellfire over yonder.
What is in my vegetable bin starts off as innocent produce and is then alchemically transmogrified into something that rivals the deficit for sheer terror.
There are colors that do not exist outside of Industrial Light and Magic’s special effects offices.
There are materials of indeterminate states of matter that require a team of people from “Outbreak” to initiate proper disposal protocols.
And all because I meant to add zucchini to the pasta but then got too tired to slice it at the last minute and added extra butter instead.
Sanitation standards that wouldn’t be considered adequate for a developing nation that didn’t yet have the infrastructure for a sewage system are running rampant in the lower bin of my refrigerator.
Why? Because I was delusional and thought that I’d serve two vegetables with dinner one night which was a stupid thing for me to think when we had anything other than vegetables in the house. Here is my inner monologue: Hmmm…I can do chicken with broccoli and saute up some mushrooms, or…Oh, look! Kraft Mac and Cheese! Special super-hero shapes!
This is the slippery slope that ends up with a house having a red tag on its door and your children on the local news.
There are times when I have to think back through significant events to figure out when I might have purchased something and how long it’s been lurking in the produce drawer. The vegetation equivalent of carbon dating. What did we use this mint for? Oh, wait…I remember, for Christmas mint-cocoa. In 2003.
And at this very moment, a mass of horror and putrescence is growing in the refrigerator. Growing mass, growing intelligence and probably growing tentacles.
I’ll send the kids in first.
In Pursuit of Martha Points 