Purging

If ever there were a better metaphor than a collection of half empty freezer burned ice cream containers, then I can’t think of it. I am fully aware that I said half empty, which for ice cream is more optimistic than it sounds. A glass half full is supposed to sound all optimistic, but if whatever was in it is good, wouldn’t it be better if it were half empty? Ditto for the ice cream containers. Ice cream is yummy, so if the containers are half empty, that is a good thing, right?

Back to the metaphor, which yes, is good, but only if you know what it means, which I don’t. I wasn’t waxing poetic about ice cream containers today. I was cleaning out my freezer. I took out all the half-used bags of frozen fruit (we like a good smoothie in this house), the errant ice cubes that jumped out of the ice maker bin onto the shelves below, the multiple open boxes of veggie burgers with one shriveled patty in them, and of course, the ice creams. I counted four unfinished cartons of vanilla—French vanilla, old fashioned vanilla, vanilla bean, plain vanilla. With those were the unpopular flavors, the Ben and Jerry’s Crème Brulee, the odd mango sorbet, the ancient container of lime sherbet from a few years ago when my husband was all into making cherry limeade floats. The sweetness of life, partially enjoyed, and then shoved deeper into the coldness, neglected, growing hard, stale, and flavorless, until today, when I melted them in the sink, crushed their cartons, and freed up space for new ice creams.

I next turned my attention to the refrigerator door, because if there is an equivalent to freezer burned ice cream, it is, without doubt, the condiments. These required more effort to purge because it takes effort to figure out how old is too old when it comes to salad dressings. Hunting for the printed expiration dates is tricky if any dressing dripped down the sides of the bottle, as the oily residue eats through ink on the label. And jellies, seedless blackberry and seedless raspberry and good old Concord grape and fancy fig orange marmalade that paired perfectly with goat cheese at a party back in 2010. How old is too old? Well, I don’t know, to be honest, but I do know that my daughter is in a peanut-free classroom this year and peanut butter isn’t pairing with anything this season. Gone too went the two bottles of capers, as if one unused bottle weren’t enough, the old black olives, the even older green olives, the bottle with one oil-soaked sundried tomato clinging to the very bottom. What to do with any of them, used once upon a time in this or that recipe, other than to toss them?

Don’t worry; I rinsed out all the bottles and jars and filled my recycling bin at the same time I filled my garbage disposal.  I watched the melted ice creams swirl down the drain, then poured the old Passover wine and Sprite from the last stomach virus on top of them, which left an unusual stain on the white porcelain sink, and an even worse smell wafting from the pipes. So I scrubbed the sink clean, put some orange peel in the garbage disposal, and removed all evidence of the mess that I made.

It’s so much brighter in the refrigerator, and the blast of cold from the freezer hits you unfettered now that all the detritus has been removed. Hmmm, maybe this is the part where the metaphor makes sense. There is something very liberating about being free, unburdened, from whatever you traps you and blocks out the light. Bad habits. Unfulfilling choices. Loss, sadness, hurt, anger, pain. I tend to sweat the small stuff, and if you think about it, what is more insignificant than an old jar of mustard? It is easy to part with, to feel no remorse. It leaves you with room to try something new, like the curry paste. You might end up throwing that one away too, next year, but then again, it might be your new favorite.