rotisserie

i cleaned out my fridge this morning. a small bout of heroism.

my husband poo poos at me every time i wrap the last bit of cheese in a cocoon of cellophane or spoon a half a ladle of soup into plastic container or save the heel of the bread, tucked into an empty space on the door of the fridge. it will just go moldy, he says. and he's right. my brilliant plans to save leftovers and have them return in a triumphant new form dissipate into night after night of campbell's tomato soup until there's no more space for another gallon of milk and i have to attack the memories with a garbage bag in hand.

this morning, digging through my past life, i ran into the cranberry sauce from thanksgiving -- four bags of cranberries, my sister-in-law said we could never eat that much, but we did, save half a cup full which i've been harboring in the lee of the aloe juice ever since. i dumped out the spaghetti sauce my mother made the week after i had henry when i had to ease myself into chairs and wear mesh underwear lined with bags of ice. i put to rest two full bags of cucumber salad: the pungent smell of vinegar and dill hadn't eased since my husband made dinner for my sister in february and again for his brother in march. there were four skinless lemons that sacrificed their yellow lustre for a sour cream and berry trifle. one green pepper that never made it into the red beans and rice. and the leftover bits of a rotisserie chicken: we bought it when i was feeling nostalgic for russia, ripping it apart with our fingers, rolling it in yogurt garlic sauce and eating it wrapped in thin tortillas.

now there's just a carton of eggs, slices of kraft cheese (for hashbrowns scattered and smothered), gallons of milk. the fridge is gaping open at me. jaws wide, mouth hinting saliva.