My partner and I do not eat peanut butter. That being said, we have, at last count, at least 12 unopened jars of peanut butter in the laundry room.
The reason we have all that peanut butter in the laundry room is because the kitchen is filled with many jars of mayonnaise, which we consume at the rate of perhaps one jar every five years. The kitchen also has more pasta and spaghetti sauce than two people could eat in a lifetime, and enough ketchup to stock the concession stand at Yankee Stadium. We also have a huge stash of pickled beets, canned asparagus and sauerkraut, none of which we will ever eat.
If having a kitchen full of food you will never eat seems sensible, you, like my partner, are addicted to Publix’s “Buy one get one free” sales. For the thrifty shopper, these sales are Nirvana, but for me, having all this extraneous food in the house drives me nuts, especially since our kitchen is tiny. Call me crazy, but I would rather use the limited space we have for food we actually eat.
This causes some friction in our household. My partner, who cannot resist a sale, comes home from Publix each week with shining eyes and the air of the triumphant hunter. “Look how much I saved,” he says, brandishing his receipt with the same look of satisfaction the cat has when he brings me a dead rat.
Last week he brought home two bottles of pomegranate vinegar, and two jars of capers, all at 2 for 1 prices. “Capers?” I said doubtfully. “We hate capers.” “Yes, but what a bargain,” he said.
Spending money on food we will never eat does not seem like a bargain, but I say nothing because I am too busy giving food away as fast as he can bring it home. I have gotten quite clever at this. I know that food banks never turn down donations, no matter how odd, so if the thrift store manager was surprised to get a box of canned Vienna sausage he never let on. Similarly, the firemen who collect donations at every intersection recently got lima beans and canned chili, and they seemed grateful. Last Halloween, instead of doling out Snickers bars, I gave the mystified neighborhood children full jars of peanut butter.
Nature abhors a vacuum, and the faster I give food away the faster my partner, seeing empty cupboard space, buys even more. Inevitably, we got to the point where he was buying food more quickly than I could give it away.
Things got tense the day I was looking for some aspirin in the medicine cabinet and found several cans of creamed corn instead. I detest creamed corn. I counted to ten and chose my words carefully. “Why is there creamed corn in the bathroom?” I asked with restraint. “Because the laundry room is full,” he responded logically, feeling compelled to add, “Duh!”
Before I could say what I was thinking he switched tactics, “I know I know,” he said hastily, “we can’t store food in the bathroom. I’ll handle it.”
Relieved to have a resolution, I got home from work the next day and could not fit my car in the garage, which was filled with huge plastic storage containers. My partner came out to greet me, beaming like he won the lottery. “Look at these totes,” he said happily. “We can use them to store the food that won’t fit in the kitchen.” He nodded with satisfaction. “I got them at Publix: buy one get one free!”