The inside of my refrigerator is sparkling clean. Everything has been removed, culled, scrubbed, and reassembled. One could perform surgery by the glow when the doors are open.
I wish I could say I did this as a matter of course. That I regularly go over and through things and wipe away crumbs and traces of items no longer in existence. Truth is, the impetus for this icebox reboot was the discovery of a large, not quite completely shut, jar of cornichons tipped over on its side.
How often does it come to this? How often do we accumulate and stash away leftovers and new items with only the vaguest of ideas of what might be happening just outside of our sight? How often do we put something off until we have no choice: we can no longer deal with the results of former actions? Why is so much of my life an enormous metaphor?
Perhaps Tuesday, I can attack under the sink.