I’m feeling fairly moral at the moment having just completed the most dreaded task in all of housekeeping. I cleaned out the refrigerator and emptied and washed the Tupperware!! Grown manly-men are known to tremble in fear before this task. The literature of Tupperware cleaning is filled with frequent references to projectile vomiting without the expected prior references to consuming vast quantities of alcohol. Tupperware cleaning is one of those things so unambiguously good, like making an old cat happy, that, if it does not actually assure one a place in heaven, it at least shaves decades off ones time in purgatory.
I have had friends so desperate to avoid this task that they have dated their Tupperware and—No. Not that kind of dating. This is not the kind of thing that leads to man on Tupperware sex. I mean they put a label on the Tupperware with the calendar date that they filled the Tupperware. This way they could go through the fridge once a month, season, or year and throw out all of the old stuff without opening it and looking inside. I’m sure Tupperware appreciates the return business, but my Protestant background makes me unable to do anything so wasteful. If I even looked like I was contemplating such a thing, I’m sure my dour Scots-Methodist ancestors would return from their graves and hound me into mine.
What led me to this task was the presence of an odd smell. In the end it turned out to have nothing to do with Tupperware; it was a bit of old broccoli in the back of the crisper. Now, although Old Broccoli sounds like a fine old sour mash or single malt whiskey (as in "what would you say to a wee nip of the Old Broccoli?" "Why, I'd say 'hello, wee nip.'"), it's not.
Now that the fridge smells nice, I think I’ll go kill some weeds.