The exercise is simple. Clean out the refrigerator.
Like an archeologist digging through layers of the earth to document epoch after epoch I stare into the depths of my refrigerator looking at jar after jar after container after container of condiments.
The progress towards the back wall of the refrigerator uncovers new and unique treasures. Some well into the early stages of fossilization, others, have long transformed from that magic elixir of flavor enhancing love into a gelatinous mass of greens and blacks. They have one thing in common – they are all stuck to the shelf like they’ve been glued there. What the hell?
Ah, the joys of being an habitual “gotta have” that magic elixir, collector.
How does a jar of jalapeno jelly manage to spill itself in the frig when the top is secure and the jar upright?
Is there some band of mischievous little Pixie’s that come out at night with the sole purpose of spilling condiments in the refrigerator?
I can see them now. Tiny little elf like bastards with tiny little wool hats and puffy little coats stuffed with mouse fur. Each of them carrying a small flask filled with whiskey. Laughing as they go about their adventure.
I see them massing at the door of the refrigerator with their cold weather gear piled around them. The little leader acting like he’s the Sir Ernest Shackleton of this refrigerator exploration.
Damn them to hell as they pry open the door and take out their little ropes to climb up to the shelves.
Them with their little grappling hooks on the end of the ropes that they swing in tight circles, building up momentum until at the right moment they release the rope and watch as the grappling hook accurately slips over the edge of the first shelf, gently nudging a half empty jar of mayo. With excitement they begin the trek up the rope with their intent clear, to wreak condiment havoc. Bastards!
I know it’s them.
All the jars and containers seem glued to the shelf. Glued with something stronger than Super Glue. It looks like a mix of maple syrup, mustard and Stonewall Kitchen’s Vidalia and fig marinade.
The Pixie little buggers with their match stick brooms, mopping the refrigerator shelf with the condiment glue. Laughing as only little Pixie’s with mouse fur stuffed puffy coats and wool hats can laugh. Damn them.
What’s this, an unopened jar of maraschino cherries , righteous. That makes the whole exercise worth it, now if I can only find my bourbon. Manhattans are in order.
Where the hell is my bourbon? Maybe that wasn’t whiskey in the Pixie’s flasks – it was my bourbon.
That’s it, this means war.
To be continued