Ammo Grrrll had ONE OF THOSE DAYS. She writes:
It’s an odd expression, really, but one where everybody knows exactly what you mean. “I’m having ‘one of those days’,” says a friend, and we never ask “WHAT kind of day?” We know it’s a difficult one, a challenging one, an unpleasant one.
I had “one of those days” last Sunday, ironically enough, since I AM a Mother and it was SUPPOSED to be MY DAY! Well, not mine alone, of course, but one shared by all the other mothers. (Note to self: do NOT try to work in a childish reference to Adam Schiff here. Your editor, Scott, will insist it’s unworthy of you. Odd, because he HAS met you…)
Maybe not quite all the other mothers. I do not know about either Latter Day Saints or Jehovah’s Witnesses, who I suspect might have similar issues, but ultra-Orthodox Jews do not celebrate Mother’s Day, as it is considered misleading to suggest that a single day is adequate to honor and respect mothers, when that should be in the forefront of one’s mind EVERY day. Point taken! I love and admire Lubavitchers, but I am not one, so I’ll take all the celebrations I can get. Especially those involving food.
My typical Mother’s Day would begin with a hearty breakfast at HQ, our favorite breakfast place in the Dusty Little Village. I would have Machaca, a delightful Mexican dish of peppers, onions, tomatoes, shredded beef and scrambled eggs with a side of frijoles. My favorite waitress would know to bring me a take-out box right with the order, as I can never eat more than half of the huge portions. But that would be back in the WBW – the World Before Wuhan. As the song said, “But, that was yesterday. And yesterday’s gone.”
Last Sunday, my day began at 5:00 a.m. after a good night’s sleep, ready to walk when it was only 81, instead of the 106 it would later reach. It was not yet light. I staggered into the kitchen to make coffee. And came very close to landing on my keister and breaking, at minimum, a hip!
Why? Because the Mexican tile floor was covered with water! This is never good. Especially in the dark! Your mind runs through the possibilities in escalating order of misery: sometimes the automatic ice maker spits out an ice cube which melts on the floor. Too wet for that. Was that thunder I heard in my sleep? Could there be a leak in the roof? – please, God, not that, which sounds expensive and difficult in Wuhan World. The Minnesota house had roof leaks from ice damming, and, despite costly annual repairs, there were multiple leaks in the kitchen every single Spring. This necessitated a variety of receptacles on the floor, which after awhile look almost normal and can be navigated around nicely. Nope: Dry ceiling. Not the problem.
Ah, with the light on, it is obvious that the water is still coming from under the freezer. Oh boy. With a heavy heart, I opened the door to the freezer. The scene was depressingly Dali-esque. The appliance is about 15 years old and had clearly died (soon to be counted in the death toll from Wuhan Flu). Flaccid bags and boxes drooped from every shelf. So much for all my careful prepping. “Man plans; God laughs.”
The several ice creams are, of course, a dead loss, and a terrible, sticky mess. The thawed frozen vegetables could theoretically have been cooked, but since they are mostly there for show, I elect just to throw them out, this time BEFORE cooking them and without the guilt. But the winner in the Icky Sticky department was the frozen bananas that I use to make Smoothies. They had turned to a very unappealing black slush in the large Baggie and had dripped onto other things. Thawed pot pies; thawed fish; thawed filo dough, oh my.
A bright spot was that all the beef and chicken was still frozen, a real blessing, considering we are now rationing meat. As anybody who knows me could guess, of COURSE I have a back-up fridge in the laundry room. It is mostly for the extra freezer space and for beverages of an adult nature as well as soft drinks. It is smaller than my big side-by-side, but it will do, although it was already quite full with other Wuhan supplies. Out go many six-packs of beer and mineral water, which we will chill just a few at a time for a couple of days.
I lugged six heavy garbage bags of ruined food to the garage trash cans, where they are now roasting malodorously in the Arizona heat as I write this on Monday. Thank God that Tuesday is garbage day. I think I will even risk a snotty letter from the HOA and put the cans out a little early. And leave the garage door open longer than is allowed as well. Livin’ on the edge!
Baruch Hashem (thank God) the refrigerator side was still coolish! I salvaged the yogurt – what’s going to happen to yogurt? – the nut butters, cheeses, fresh fruit and vegetables. It’s truly amazing how many bottles of STUFF reside for years in the door of a fridge – soy sauce, three kinds of hot sauce, mustard, ketchup, two kinds of horseradish left over from Passover; teriyaki sauce and Red Curry Paste; six ice cream toppings, and at least 15 bottles of exotic salad dressings bought on impulse by me and rejected by Max Cossack, a devoted Ranch fan. Limited new space required harsh triage. Out went vintage condiments with a 2018 expiration date or earlier. Gotta draw the line somewhere. I’m strict that way.
I knew Mama was crying from Heaven at all the waste of food, which she considered a worse sin than everything except voting Democrat.
Altogether, it took me nine hours to transfer food, clean up the entire mess and mop the floor. Not to brag, but I happen to be a world-class refrigerator packer, so I stuffed an impressive amount into the backup fridge and even a few things into the mini-fridge in the guest casita. And also made an enormous brunch out of random, thawed, salvageable vittles.
Because we still live under capitalism, I made one call to Spencer’s Appliances, and a brand new Whirlpool Side by Side (with fingerprint-resistant stainless steel!) Refrigerator/Freezer will be delivered within a two-hour window on Wednesday. The workers will be masked and gloved and I am to give them plenty of space. Which is quite different from the joke from the Former Soviet Union: a man has come into a small inheritance and has ordered a refrigerator. The delivery is scheduled for 25 years hence, at 3:00 in the afternoon. The man asks if it could be at 10:00 in the morning instead because his washing machine will be delivered at 3:00. That is the world The Squad and their like-minded, brain-dead ideologues want for us. Resist!
Oh, the rest of the day was beautiful with several phone calls from youngsters and friends who love me and a bouquet of red roses and Feliz Dia Mami balloon from my beloved housekeeper. Max got us a pizza for supper. One frustrating day aside, I remain blessed beyond any possible sense of merit. Let the resupplying begin Wednesday.
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