Old Food

I remember when I was a kid and Mom would be damn tired of cooking meals as if she were running an Army mess hall. Seriously, she had to cook for eleven kids and my dad. That was like cooking for twenty (Dad ate a lot). So on some nights we would have what we called "leftovers". Mom just called it dinner. Whatever we had on Monday, Tuesday, and Wednesday, would be combined somehow as Thursday's dinner. I never complained, it was food. Friday was different, we were Catholic. Friday's meals could be anything from fishsticks to pancakes, no meat. Hard to do leftovers without meat.

The other night Mark suggested that we either order out or that I go across the street to Wolfy's and pick up dinner. He didn't feel like cooking.

"We have tons of food in the refrigerator. Leftovers coming out of our ears." I suggested.

Mark turned up his nose.

"Ewww... that's all old food. I'm not eating old food."

Yes, that's what Mark calls leftovers, 'old food'. As if it has been sitting in the refrigerator for the last twenty years. I know that it hasn't, because the fridge is only one year old. So I have this problem with leftover buildup. Tupperware containers, foam take-out boxes, and mystery foil wrapped packages filling up the refrigerator. I try to eat some of it for lunch, but again, Mark wants something new for lunch. About once a week I have to clear out the fridge and throw away huge amounts of food. Sadly, I can't even give it to somebody who might need it. By the time I get around to dumping it, it's rotten.

Friday morning I went into the kitchen to make Mark and myself breakfast. I was scrounging around, looking for something different, and I found four slices of raisin bread at the bottom of the bread box. I opened the wrapper. No blue fuzz on it. I gave the bread a little squeeze. Still pliable. So I made French toast with it. Mark sat down for breakfast and I put the French toast in front of him. He stared at it for a moment.

"Where did you get this bread?"

"It was in the bread box." I informed him as I shoveled French toast bits into my face.

Mark stared down at his plate.

"This bread is weeks old."

"I don't know. Maybe a week or so old, but it's okay. It wasn't stale."

"No, it's old. I remember buying it. I can't eat this crap." Mark told me with his best pouty face. "You know that I don't eat old food. This is old food."

I continued filling my mouth with French toast while I stared at Mark.

"What kind of Midwest yahoo am I living with. I can't believe you eat old food." Mark said as he pushed the offending pile away.

Yep, I sure do. And if I don't end up with a stomach ache, botulism, or the trots, I consider it a win-win situation.