I saw a post on Facebook where someone had won the United States mother of the year award.
I read that just before going down to the kitchen to finally identify what the source of kitchen stench was. Pretty sure ‘mother of the year’ doesn’t have phantom death smells in her kitchen. I also managed to put the blinders on to avoid looking at the rest of the house while I went off to fight the odor battle.
I mean, my house isn’t so dirty that the government could come in and make us clean. Burning the house down is still not the best option and we would never qualify to be on the show Hoarders. Stay the fuck out of the basement and I can still claim that last sentence is true.
Pretty sure I wouldn’t even qualify for the ‘mother of the block’ award.
Vegetables in our house are like very short lived pets. I buy them with all kinds of good intentions. This week we will eat healthy! I am going to observe ‘meatless Monday’! I know, I’ll buy an eggplant! And an avocado!
Then throughout the week, a variation of this phone call takes place when I’m driving home from work:
Me: Are you cooking anything?
Randy: Did you want me to cook something?
Me: If you want. I mean, I’m not going to cook.
Randy: Taco Bell?
What happens to the vegetables (short lived pets) is they sit on the counter and become beacons of life for fruit flies. Then the invariable ‘over ripe’ phase sets in, which in the avocado’s case , is five minutes after we get home from the store. This phase is followed by the ‘roma tomatoes have become soup’ phase. They are then disposed of, sometimes in a majestic cloud of fruit flies, and space is made for the next round of vegetables. Sometimes we go to the farmer’s market and I buy locally grown and organic vegetables. I feel especially smug when I’m throwing them away.
I decided this is an unfair end to the life of a vegetable. I mean, I’m probably not going to stop doing it, but I can least acknowledge a vegetable death through poetry.
I am not a poet. I know nothing about poetry and I probably haven’t written a poem since I was 19 years old, which is the birth year that women are required by law to write poetry.
But I am going to put my lack of experience and skill of poetry writing aside and do what I can to raise awareness for the plight of the vegetable. Through bad poetry.
Rose colored liquid suspended in a plastic bag
Hanging over the edge of the cutting board
That’s not good
Roma tomatos, you were meant for pork enchiladas
And you were replaced by a double cheeseburger
You didn’t serve your intended purpose
But you were still gorgeous
At least until Thursday
I still haven’t found the source of stench in my kitchen. I also haven’t found that bag of peaches I bought last weekend.