In Defense of My Refrigerator
Jun. 13th, 2002 12:55 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
rushthatspeaksAs most of you have undoubtedly already heard, my lover and I awoke this morning to discover that we were just in time to prevent ourselves from starring in a post-modern remake of The Blob. At least, this is what I assume; I didn't actually see inside the tupperware myself, but I did hear Ruth making the sort of noise that is generally followed by "It's alive! It's allliiiiivv--AAAAAHHH!!! *crunch**smack**gulp*" and a call to the Seventh Cavalry. We then burned some fresh sage to get rid of the peculiarly pervasive smell, and sprayed some perfume to get rid of the new peculiarly pervasive smell. After having left the windows open and the fan on all day, I can now say authoritatively that none of these smells have lingered, thank all the gods.
I can also say authoritatively that this whole incident was not our fault.
What had been in the tupperware was, in a previous existence, coconout milk. It was two days old and in an airtight container. My cookbook insists that coconut milk will keep for a week if tightly closed in an airtight container. Next time, therefore, it will go into said container by means of Ruth right after it is opened WHILE I am still stir-frying and have not the use of my hands, and we'll see what happens then. If my cookbook is a dastardly liar as well as a purveyor of recipes, I shall just have to learn to cook some things that call for can-sized quantities of coconut milk, as the Thai stir-fried mushrooms and noodles in coconut curry that I had made with the rest of it had turned out magnificently.
Also, this doesn't happen with this refrigerator too, too often. The Saga of the Thing in the Crisper was, fortunately, before I moved in, which is good, as we never did figure out what it had been or its possible relationship to anything Ruth had brought into the fridge, and it sounded like the sort of occurrence that I personally would much rather move house than have to deal with. I admire her fortitude on that one.
Still, the creation of life was a rather aggravating start to the morning.
In other news, Ruth finally got around to building a shelf in our closet for our soon-to-occur kittens to have their litterbox on. It is a very good shelf, although we will have to give them a chair to jump on to get to it till they get a bit cat-sized. It brings us much closer to getting kittens, which is good, as both Ruth and I have reached a stage of pet deprivation that I tend to think of as The World Is My Petting Zoo. I do not, when I have animals of my own, think that every single dog I pass on the street is the cutest fuzzie that ever existed. We need to get kittens so that I can return to the normal and healthy state of knowing that my own pets are the cutest fuzzies that ever existed. I briefly thought about getting two males, one orange tabby and one black, and naming them Pfirsich and Rosen, but Manfred Pfirsich Maria Rommel is far too long a name for a scrap of kitten and Ruth pointed out that Rosen would Never, Ever Forgive Us for having him neutered and would dive-bomb us every morning to wake us up. (For reasons why these cat names are witty, consult Donna Barr's The Desert Peach, positively the best alternative comic about gay German officers in Africa during WWII out there. I recommend starting with Vol. 2: Politics, Pilots, and Puppies. Yes, that is the actual title.)
So we will name the cats whatever they tell us we ought to.
Angst-O-Meter: 2. Still unemployed, but Boston people soon and a happy life in general.
I can also say authoritatively that this whole incident was not our fault.
What had been in the tupperware was, in a previous existence, coconout milk. It was two days old and in an airtight container. My cookbook insists that coconut milk will keep for a week if tightly closed in an airtight container. Next time, therefore, it will go into said container by means of Ruth right after it is opened WHILE I am still stir-frying and have not the use of my hands, and we'll see what happens then. If my cookbook is a dastardly liar as well as a purveyor of recipes, I shall just have to learn to cook some things that call for can-sized quantities of coconut milk, as the Thai stir-fried mushrooms and noodles in coconut curry that I had made with the rest of it had turned out magnificently.
Also, this doesn't happen with this refrigerator too, too often. The Saga of the Thing in the Crisper was, fortunately, before I moved in, which is good, as we never did figure out what it had been or its possible relationship to anything Ruth had brought into the fridge, and it sounded like the sort of occurrence that I personally would much rather move house than have to deal with. I admire her fortitude on that one.
Still, the creation of life was a rather aggravating start to the morning.
In other news, Ruth finally got around to building a shelf in our closet for our soon-to-occur kittens to have their litterbox on. It is a very good shelf, although we will have to give them a chair to jump on to get to it till they get a bit cat-sized. It brings us much closer to getting kittens, which is good, as both Ruth and I have reached a stage of pet deprivation that I tend to think of as The World Is My Petting Zoo. I do not, when I have animals of my own, think that every single dog I pass on the street is the cutest fuzzie that ever existed. We need to get kittens so that I can return to the normal and healthy state of knowing that my own pets are the cutest fuzzies that ever existed. I briefly thought about getting two males, one orange tabby and one black, and naming them Pfirsich and Rosen, but Manfred Pfirsich Maria Rommel is far too long a name for a scrap of kitten and Ruth pointed out that Rosen would Never, Ever Forgive Us for having him neutered and would dive-bomb us every morning to wake us up. (For reasons why these cat names are witty, consult Donna Barr's The Desert Peach, positively the best alternative comic about gay German officers in Africa during WWII out there. I recommend starting with Vol. 2: Politics, Pilots, and Puppies. Yes, that is the actual title.)
So we will name the cats whatever they tell us we ought to.
Angst-O-Meter: 2. Still unemployed, but Boston people soon and a happy life in general.
