A SLICE OF LIFE

Lori Borgman finds the funny in everyday life, writing from the heartland of the US. Now, if she could just find her car keys…

Our columnist Lori Borgman peeked into her refrigerator this week, and realised it’s not a pretty sight.

Since merging two households – our daughter, her husband and their three little ones are temporarily living with us as they wait for their new house to be finished – we have made a surprising discovery.

We knew closets would be full. We knew shelves would sag. We knew the garage would bulge.

What we didn’t know was that the most densely packed space per centimetre in the entire house would be the refrigerator.

Our local newspaper once ran a feature titled, ‘What’s in your fridge?’ where they’d publish a short paragraph listing what people had in their refrigerators.

Make a list of what is now in our fridge and you’re looking at a 300-page book. And that’s just Volume 1.

Want balsamic vinegar? We have it in duplicate. Ditto for soy sauce, mustard and ketchup.

Pickles? You could open a deli. Cheese? Cheddar, Swiss, Parmesan, asiago or mozzarella? Would you like that in blocks, slices or shredded?

The problem isn’t that the contents of two refrigerators merged into one, but that two women can’t stop shopping. Two women, neither of whom can or ever will yield control of the kitchen. The kitchen is where a woman’s dynasty is built. Nobody yields a dynasty.

There was an initial agreement to meal plan together and shop once a week.

It lasted until I was able to find my keys, slip out of the house, swing by the store and pick up a few things.

Then she slipped out of the house, stopped by the store and picked up a few things. There was so much slipping in and out and swinging by the store that we nearly crashed our cars in the driveway.

Turns out our agreement was an agreement made in mutual bad faith.

Do you know what happens when two women try to rule the same kitchen and keep stopping by the store to pick up a few things?

There is an explosion – an explosion of leftovers.

We now have 29,765 small containers stacked in the fridge with a few bites of this and a few bites of that. When they all go bad at the same time, emit fumes and blow their sealed lids, the entire refrigerator will explode. It will probably take the entire kitchen with it. When the dust clears and the last of the pasta finishes sliding down the walls, we will both still be standing, still battling for control.

Our daughter keeps explaining that we can avert disaster if I will simply abide by her meal planning chart that shows the menu for each night (including three nights designated for leftovers) and the ingredients needed for each meal.

‘When you write the ingredients down with the meal you are making, you will always have

When the fridge explodes and the dust clears and the last of the pasta slides down the walls, we will both still be standing, still battling for control

what you need,’ she calmly explains.

I nod and note the meal schedule says we are having cilantro honey-lime chicken tonight. ‘Did you get cilantro?’ I ask.

She gasps.

‘I’ll get my car keys.’