Today I cleaned out my refrigerator. It was sort of frightening. But in the process, I realized I have been sitting on a gold mine. Forget Harry Potter and his flimsy little cloak. I have an entire set of Tupperware storage containers that make anything placed inside them invisible.
Why else would a man eat a peanut butter and jelly sandwich for supper when there was a pork chop right there on the refrigerator shelf, complete with mashed potatoes and gravy, and in the plastic tub right next to it, creamed peas? All of which he would normally wolf down with enthusiasm and compliments to the chef, even if it is a day or two old. This is not a person who is too good for leftovers. Otherwise, he would have starved to death back in my athletic trainer days when I worked sixty or seventy hours a week and cooked only on Sundays. When I met him, his idea of home cuisine was to fry up a pound of deer sausage and leave it--uncovered, mind you--on a plate in the refrigerator where he could whack off a chunk whenever he got hungry.
And yet, I just tossed out a moldy tub of his favorite brown sugar garlic sweet potatoes and another of the chicken fettucine that he loved so much he ate until he had to nap for two hours afterward to let it settle.
There is only one explanation. It's the Tupperware. It's magic. And think of the possibilities, if I can only figure out how it makes itself disappear. How much would you pay to never find that someone has filched your totally awesome clam chowder out of the break room at work...again? And mothers...imagine being able to stash your chocolate right there in the refrigerator knowing it won't ever be raided by a ravenous toddler.
I'm telling you, as soon as I discover the secret to the magical Tupperware, I'm gonna be rich. For right now though, I'm putting the leftover prime rib in a big square plastic tub in the middle of the top shelf of the refrigerator where I know no one else will touch it.
Mine. All mine.