I’ve had some pretty heavy posts recently. Let’s lighten it up. And there’s nothing funnier than the weird shit I’m now pulling out of my kitchen. You see, we’ve lived in our San Francisco house for more than 20 years and I’m doing the once-every-few-decades complete clean-out. This weekend was the kitchen, a project that threatens to continue throughout the week. Or maybe never end. We have deep cabinets and many of them we haven’t seen the back of for more than a decade. Delving into them is a long, dark journey into our souls. Or something. But it’s disconcerting as I’m being confronted with a me I’m not sure I ever was.
For instance, I seem to have been, at some point, the kind of person who accumulates THREE complete fondue sets.
Then there are the odd glasses and miscellaneous bottles of alcoholic drinks shoved behind a mountain of Tupperware in another cabinet. How about a set of World Cup USA glasses? But it’s the Camp Snoopy glass collection that has me pondering. I’ve never been to Camp Snoopy. I have no kids. I don’t even particularly like Snoopy. Where did these come from? When was I the kind of person who collected Camp Snoopy paraphernalia?
And the raisins. In little snacky-pack sized boxes. At one point in my life, I must have really LOVED raisins. Then I decided I hated them. And shoved dozens of these boxes into every recess of every corner and drawer.
There are the many bottles of strange food items floating in oil. In the dark recesses of my past, I was a person who bought loads of these. Then stuck them in very high cabinets where they could “mature” for several decades.
And on a slightly sad note, it was years ago that I successfully made the transition from cat owner to dog person. I never looked back. I thought. Because, for some reason, I saved every cat bowl I ever had.
Finally, about that Bird’s Custard. If you aren’t English, you may not know how truly disgusting an alleged foodstuff this crap is. It’s a powder that mixes up into a horribly neon pasty goo that has a distinct metallic after-taste. For some odd reason, Brits will take a perfectly fine cake or other dessert and slather it with this muck. They cling to Bird’s Custard as fiercely as we do our peanut butter. (Except peanut butter is good.)
For all I know, this particular can may have travelled over from England in Andy’s suitcase when he was a fresh-faced 25 year old immigrant. This can is so old, it’s rusted, dented and the label is peeling off. There may even have been mouse poo on it. But Andy fished it out of my throw-away pile in horror: “You aren’t throwing away the Bird’s Custard!?” I explained diplomatically that it might have gone bad. “No, Bird’s Custard NEVER goes bad.”
I guess it has the shelf-life of Twinkies.
NEW CONTEST: By popular demand, I will be giving away a Camp Snoopy glass or a moldy can of Bird’s Custard to the reader who leaves the best comment. Need not be British to win the Custard. But you’d have to be British to eat it.