3  a.m. I gaze forlornly into our refrigerator. It’s overstuffed – with nothing to eat.

                  I do not want to be eating. I want not to be eating, so this chaos of containers serves my interest. If the exact apt tidbit for this despicable hour presented itself, I’d eat it to my regret. Vorrei e non vorrei (Don Giovanni, Zerlina’s aria). I should rejoice, then, in this disheartening mess. But I do not rejoice. I am the cook in our house. This grubby result reflects my husbandry – unless, since it’s the kitchen, I should say housewifery. It is I who purchased these provisions and stuffed them into these opaque plastic receptacles you can’t see into so you must remove the lids even to identify their contents. Jane never complains but if she did she might about this. What’s wrong with me that I’ve produced such a botch! And this is hardly the first time. Periodically, maybe once a fortnight, I cleanse these Augean stables, dumping everything, and for a day or two, order reigns, we can breathe easy, the management of this domus is in good hands. I’d pat myself on the back if my shoulder weren’t arthritic. Then what happens? “Chaos is come again” (Othello). No one event was to blame – a family get-together, say – but countless innocent instances of indolence, indifference, indecision – weariness at the close of my evening clean-up, before bed, when, what the hell, might as well spoon these leftovers into a container, you never know. How I hate that word “leftover”! For starters, it’s unmelodious, with that central consonant cluster tongue, teeth, and lips must clamber over, like the final stragglers over Donner Pass. Second, it’s accusatory: why left over – poor planning, poor cuisine, poor executive skills? No one wants to eat “leftovers” unless they’re starving. Then think of all those “starving children in Ethiopia” my mother used to bludgeon us with when we were tots. My mother was a clean plate martinet. Did she even know where Ethiopia was?

                  My gaze continues, my mood darkens. The foregoing paragraph may have consumed a whole minute I could have spent more productively – sleeping, say. Henry, who doesn’t know from moods, gazes upward eagerly. Henry’s all in favor of open refrigerator doors from which delectables might debouch. He’s particularly partial to leftovers.

                  Oh what the hell, I settle on a promising container only to discover at its unlidding… you don’t want to know! My nocturnal nibble inclination shrivels presto precipitando. If this were a sci-fi movie for the pimple set a green creature would explode from the carton in a frothing rage. And when I say green I’m not talking peas, but meat, formerly pink. Even Henry crinkles his nose, stepping back.

                  I make a note on the grocery list, which I underscore twice: CLEAN REFRIGERATOR. Declaring a determination is almost as good as doing the deed. Tomorrow this will be done. For sure. If I have time. Which I don’t. Soon then. Unless (a small smile) on Thursday our trusty cleaning help can “sort it.” (We’ve been watching a British crime series and they are always “sorting it.”)

                  A cracker instead, maybe two. While they don’t quite hit the spot they’re preferable to anything refrigerated. Plus a treat for Henry to bribe him not to report on this event.

                  Why tell you this? Haven’t you better uses for your attention with our world falling apart?

                  My guess is I’m focusing on the comical manageable small to divert my attention from the tragic unmanageable huge in which we swirl.

                  But that’s just a guess.