Of all the challenges posed by closing down Aberdeen and opening up Boston, clearing the refrigerators, freezers and pantries has got to be the worst. So much gets thrown out. So much perfectly good food goes to waste and ultimately creates methane over at the dump. This pains me at every level of my being and my ecological consciousness.

Accumulated Crud

Someone, however, must clean the appliances. They are sticky with spills and nasty. The produce drawers get washed out every so often because, sooner or later, a cucumber or onion or forgotten lemon decays and produces a puddle of slime at the bottom. The shelves collect drips and goo, which I try to ignore. Unfortunately, the excessive quantity and variety of chutneys gifted me by the children-in-law on my 70th birthday had a propensity to fall over, and their caps never seemed to be tightened properly.

The System Works

Thursday, my dynamic duo of Greg and Kacey, and their partner Sarah, returned and packed all the stuff that hadn’t been packed before. Before they left, they instructed me to find all the bits and pieces that had been out of sight and out of mind and therefore unpacked. I did my best.

Friday, the muscle and the truck arrived to remove my worldly goods and chattels. That was heart-stopping. I gave my lecture about handling my delicate antiques and then tried to stay out of their way. Kacey had organized the heap in the basement so that the computer desk and office boxes would be last on the truck, first off. Gawd bless her.

My Baggage

Back to Hampton Inn

ome stuff ended up in my car. A few suitcases, my guitar, the undrunk remainders of the liquor shelves. This and that. More stuff has since accrued. I created a pile of cleaning supplies and odd bits that struck me as useful as I emptied the larders and got into the lower cupboards. I pondered the problem of a vacuum cleaner and ultimately decided to get a new one, something lightweight and upright, convenient for a small apartment. Walmart had what the Internet recommended.

So, I have cleared refrigerators and freezers and emptied cupboards. I have swept and mopped floors and pondered the imminent changes. And I am back at the Hampton Inn. I am not really hungry, but I feel in need of something.

Cocktail Hour

dirty martini

In my refrigerator, there was a jar, one of those jars originally were filled with Bonne Maman jam. They really are useful. Wider at the mouth than at the base, about two cups capacity. Well suited to collecting bacon fat or holding kosher salt. This one contained four or five Spanish olives, stuffed with pimento, sitting in brine of juice and vodka.  Kacey’s booze box, the remains of my liquor cabinet, contained the last of bottle of Stumbras vodka with its stem of buffalo grass.

Together they became a dirty martini.

And how I needed a martini, when I sat down to write this, Even though it was only 12:39 pm.