I’m sorry, almond butter jar. We bought you many months ago for a crockpot dish. On Thanksgiving, we broke our crockpot (apparently, crockpots don’t like getting heated directly on the stove). But we kept you, half-full and relegated to the far back corner of our fridge’s top shelf. I notice today at 10:04 a.m., that you are alone.
Maybe in another fridge, you would be treated better—-treated like the Bobo delicacy that you are. There are no other jelly jars, no produce, no leftovers around you. You are in isolation.
In your time out of the fridge, you participated in a very uncelebrated South African stew made with soggy bread, soy crumbles and dried apricots. Ever since, I think we’ve just wanted to forget you. Remember, you are not the only food met with our indifference and shame.
In our fridge: two-day old pizza (from Pete’s) that we will never eat, five-day old fake BBQ (too sweet, with the consistency of warm gum, now has sweat beads forming on container), four eggs, two mustard bottles (one mostly mustard juice at this point), two tomato sauces, two soy milks (both spoiled), one orange juice, one loaf of rye bread (sliced, purchased last night at Target), one and a half tomatoes, two grapefruits (ruby red), one container of moldy lentils, one ketchup bottle, one package of creamy coconut bars (the prize), and so on.
What’s in your fridge? We want to know.