“This looks like a good deal,” my daughter said as we turned a page in a menu at an out- of-town restaurant. “It has an appetizer and two entrees. We can each order this and get the first entrée for now and take out the other for our supper at the motel.”
“Looks fine to me,” I said. “I think I’ll do that.”
We selected the same appetizer, then chose a small steak with a baked potato and mixed veggies for our luncheon entrée. I ordered a grilled chicken salad for my second and she chose a pasta salad. My hospitalized husband had suggested we get away from his room for a little while and “go get yourselves a steak.”
The waitress brought our appetizers. Our eyes just about popped out of the sockets. One dish was generous enough for four people. It was overwhelming for one. “If I eat all that I won’t have any room for my steak,” I said, as I dipped a chip into the luscious-looking dip. It was delicious. I was tempted, but I left about three quarters of mine untouched.
We had instructed the waitress to bring our salads in take-out boxes. When we finished, my daughter requested a takeout box for our combined left-over appetizers. When we got up to leave, I looked at those three large boxes and shook my head. “Do you think we can squeeze those boxes in that tiny motel refrigerator?” I asked.
My daughter giggled. “Well, if anybody can do it, you sure can,” she said, her eyes twinkling. I should have seen that comment coming. The way my refrigerator stays jammed is a family joke. Our granddaughter amuses her friends in Lexington, Ky., with stories about Grandmother’s refrigerator. My husband mostly backs away from it and tells me what he’s looking for. I search for him. Sometimes it involves pushing just about everything around on a shelf to locate what he asks for. Other times I find myself on my knees digging through a crisper drawer.
The refrigerator is old, really old, but it works fine. It’s just too little for people who usually do their major grocery shopping once a month as is our practice. When I load it with the dairy products, produce, meats, and other items, there isn’t much room left. After I add a few left-overs, it is as if everything plays a game of hide and seek with me. I know they’re there somewhere. But where?
“I know that mayonnaise (or whatever) is in there,” I sometimes mutter, as I shove pickles, mustard, a block of cheese, or other things aside only to encounter something else I don’t need right then.
Everybody in our family knows that even though it looks like not even a straight pin will fit in that jammed refrigerator, I can always find a place for one or two more items. And yes, those boxes fitted nicely in the motel refrigerator.