Oh Swami, Swami...

On Sunday I made brownies for our company. They are the rich, gooey kind that you want to eat one after another. We ended up with quite a few left over. So they were put into a container with a lid and pushed into the refrigerator.
Last night Sam's father wondered why we didn't have anything sweet for the end of his meal. I told him that we do. He went to the refrigerator, threw open the door and stood there for several seconds, staring into it. "I don't see nothine," he opined. I noted that he neither stooped down to see what was on the lower shelves, nor did he open the lids on anything. And yet, not only did we have brownies, we also had leftover pumpkin cake and apple crisp. He just hadn't looked for it properly.

The night before, Sam stood in front of the refrigerator, trying to think of what he wanted for supper. Since I haven't felt well, it fell to him to prepare something. "We don't have any food," he sighed. Looking past him, I saw a huge bag of Swiss Chard, a container of spaghetti with fresh home made sauce, two containers of fresh green salad, a container with leftover chicken cacciatore, apple crisp, and a pot full of cooked succotash.
"What are you talking about?" I couldn't believe what he was saying.
He pursed his lips and moved one container to the side. He looked disgusted, tired, and overwhelmed. I knew what that look meant: either he would make himself a fried egg sandwich, or he would cook up some Trader Joe's Mandarin Chicken. And so I watched as he pulled out the frying pan and put the chicken in it.

I don't know what it is about men and refrigerators. Not all men are aversive to really looking and being aware of what is in there, or cooking meals from what is there. But the men I know and live with, are like this. So intelligent in other areas, but can't find one thing in the refrigerator. I was lamenting this to a friend whose husband holds a doctoral degree. She said her husband was always asking her, "Pam, where is the milk?" She got so sick of it that she began bowing toward the refrigerator saying in a wobbly, reverential voice, "Oh Swami, Swami, show us the milk!" John would glare at her and she would tell him that if the milk were a snake he'd be dead by now. This was greatly comforting to me, recently married and stunned at how Sam couldn't find anything. But it was alarming on the other hand because it meant that we'd waste a lot of food over the course of our lives because I'd cook it and he couldn't find it. We'd drown in spoiled food. Indeed, there have been times when I've thrown out all sorts of things that didn't get eaten, and I don't just mean the wilted greens in the crisper.

This strangeness about kitchens and finding food seems to come from the fact that some men can't identify what they are looking at. When I came downstairs this morning, Sam was wiping ant spray around the pantry door. "We have ants and I'm killing them" he announced with determination. I squashed one with my finger.
"They were after Dad's sugar in that container he has in there. So I put it in the refrigerator."
"Good move, honey" I said, approvingly.
He sighed. We are sick of fighting ants.
This afternoon when I came home, I opened up the refrigerator to make Dad lunch. There were a number of things in there that had been rearranged so it was hard to find what I was looking for. But there, right in the front of the juice and milk, stood a large container of garlic powder. What in the world? I wondered.
Oh, the ants. That's right. The garlic is kept in the wire rack inside the pantry door. Sam was killing ants on the pantry door. He must have thought this was Dad's brown sugar.
I paged Sam right away: "You are a silly, silly man!"
He called immediately, laughing at himself.
Oh Swami, Swami, where is the brown sugar now?