what’s in my fridge

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Does that first picture make you uncomfortable? It should.

I’ve been on a rare cleaning kick lately and decided to go through all the items in my refrigerator. I found some real gems that I wanted to share with you all.

This is kind of like the whole “what’s in my purse” thing, only it’s all garbage.

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Here we have some yogurt that I had been “saving for later.”

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Once upon a time, this pot was full of pasta, herbs and broccoli. Then a drunk wench ate all of the pasta and abandoned the broccoli, where it would be long forgotten. Until now, of course.

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The liquid in this box of tofu was, at one time, as clear as water.

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Let’s take a trip down memory lane, shall we? Remember that Thai curry dish I made around the beginning of the month? Well, believe it or not, this is that same dish. Chilled, not frozen.

I actually had to hold my breath while taking this photo. I used to wonder what people’s B.O. smelled like back in the days before deodorant. Now I know.

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i am a cheesetarian

When I was a little kid, I was lactose intolerant. I use this excuse—I’m pretty sure it’s valid—to explain why I drank soy baby formula until I was six years old (maybe older, but I’m leaving it at six for the sake of my waning aspirational self). Isomil, I think, is what it was called, or “Sarah milk” in our house. Hey, at least I wasn’t the product of creepy attachment parenting, breastfeeding until I left for college… (Someone, take an icepick to my brain!)

Eventually I grew out of the lactose intolerance and began drinking normal milk like a human. I still did weird, borderline sociopathic things like microwaving ants and squishing caterpillars like tubes of toothpaste, but I could eat cheese pizza and mac ‘n’ cheese to my chubby little heart’s content.

Lately, though, things have taken a turn. Over the past week or so, whenever I eat something with a lot of cheese—like, say, pizza or pasta with cheese sauce—within half an hour I’m on the toilet praying to every divinity I can think of.

I’m hoping that maybe this is just some weird spell rather than the unwelcome return of lactose intolerance, but just to be safe I’m cutting out dairy for a while. Which means I’m essentially going to fast.

In a week or so, I’ll eat something really cheesy and see if it makes me feel like a wild animal is trying to claw its way out of my asshole. If not, I might be in the clear.

Keep your fingers crossed. In the meantime, I’ll be sharing some vegan-y recipes.

this is what I had for dinner last night

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That’s right. A PB&J and 50 shades of not giving a shit.

But it’s the latter part that I’m trying to change. I, like everyone else, have an aspirational self (note: this is very different from the actual self). She is morally sound, organized, crafty and motivated. She doesn’t sleep til noon. She cares not only about how she presents herself to the world, but also about how she treats her body.

Cooking is caring. And I’m not talking about Honey Boo Boo’s interpretation of what constitutes a good meal. I’m talking about the health-conscious aspirational chef. The going-on-ten-years vegetarian who actually remembers why she stopped eating meat in the first place.

My history with cooking is a rocky one. Years ago during another short-lived culinary kick, I prepared two dishes that stand out in my mind: one, a simple pot of pasta with vegetables. My dad was on a low-carb diet and wanted something light but satisfying, so I used whole grain pasta and planned to use the sauce sparingly.

At the time I didn’t fully grasp the definition of a roux (pronounced: roo). A roux is typically used to thicken sauces and is made with equal amounts of butter (or any other fat) and flour—about 3 tablespoons each. You cook the flour and butter for a few minutes, or until you eliminate the raw taste of the flour. Then, voila, you can add it to your sauce of choice.

Patience is one of many virtues that my actual self lacks. Roux takes a bit of time to thicken. So, I thought, I’ll just keep adding flour. Two cups of flour. And a full stick of butter.

I reluctantly served the dish, which had the consistency of wet cement. I don’t think my dad finished a bowl (and that’s saying something).

The second catastrophe was something called a lentil loaf. Like meatloaf, but without the meat. And…crustier.

No one in my family managed to take more than a bite.

Needless to say my self-esteem has suffered at the incompetent hands of my Helen Keller-esque inner chef (oh, I should mention: I might get a little offensive at times? Maybe I will aspire to be PC someday…~~*~JKLOLz**~**~)

So here goes. Get ready, y’all.