April 21st, 2004
108259492372052731
Leftovers, piety, and trips to The Castle
Fresh from the “The Grand Gathering” yesterday, my refridgerator has little in the way of free space. This of course causes the great pecking order of second-hand food to come into play, with the oldest (or least appealing) of organic refugees receiving papers for exile to the wastebin (or if they can generate a smell quickly, the purgatory of Freezer Bay Six). Today’s casuality of cooking is a failed attempt at arrabiata from last Saturday, doomed from the onset via the machinations of a less than honest produce vendor, and a less than intelligent cook. Since I was late to work Monday and had no time to part with my burnable waste at the time, the culinary death sentence has been delayed to Thursday.
This brings to mind the time-honored tradition of what I like to call “feeding the little animals”. Since leaving the Southern Living splendor of my mother’s domicile, I have been without the aid of the cooking mistake eraser, the garbage disposal. Of course trash doesn’t go out every night, so what do we do when a souffle’ is scorched or a fish phased out from the realm of edible (and identifiable) matter? Why we do Woodsy, Smokey, and Mr. Wizard all a good service by leveraging mother nature’s garbage disposal system: compost. Rotten bananas, fermented chili, and moldy pasta all have one thing in common– they all decompose into basic compounds at a (relatively) quick rate, leaving soil-enriching nutrients where once Betty Crocker’s nightmare died on the operating room table.
Now of course most of us live in big cities, and don’t have the luxury of a spacious, wooded backyard to house a 4-H quality filth internment center, so we make do with what we have; the closest several square feet of natural terrain via a front door or window. With the latter, the degree of risk and “splash zone” increase exponentially up to the fifth floor or so, whereupon the spaced required for the target area levels off as your “gifts to the earth” reach the terminal velocity of sludge. In this case, it may be more prudent to be selective of where you deposit your little presents. Behind hedges or under cars on blocks work well, especially if you live in an area with less than sympathetic neighbors. It should also be noted that this procedure is best carried out in the vicinity of three a.m., as such is the time when most of your target benefactees will be about panhandling for sustenance.
The faint of heart need not bow out, for there is great solace in the belief that there are many, many rodents and other quadripeds less fortunate than ourselves that may reap the benefits of our dining mishaps. Squirrels, rats, and some less discerning dogs love three week old sausage and furry minestrone with legs. In fact, some may go so far as to say it’s our duty as further evolved beings to chuck whatever biodegradable materials we don’t care for outdoors, as in a landfill it’s doing no one any good except bacteria, and we have enough of that as it is. If you still don’t believe the benefits of recycling via urban compost, ask any one of my converted followers.
Tangentially related (but perhaps inappropriate at the moment), I feel it necessary to pay homage to all those wonderful establishments which partake in similar practices, with only a slightly higher grade audience in mind. There are scores of hamburger joints, steakhouses, and other time-sensitive eateries that at the close of business, may be burdened with a vast array of perishable gems. By loitering around such vendors for a good half hour until closing, you may be fortunate enough to receive discounted wares as they have outlived their usefulness/sellability. This is of course a more dramatic step beyond the “daily special” bread and cookies grocery stores place in the first aisle of the market that you’re sure to pass on the way to the milk. Of particular note is the fine nutrional dining venue The Castle, from which many destitute students living in the Old Dorms of Virginia frequent for unwillingness to walk the extra quarter mile to the Treehouse. Many a time have I seen chubby sorority rushees and wrestlers come back bragging of how many slices of Castrol-lined pizza they received for the price of one.
So to the all the second-hand food saints of the world, God bless, and bone appetite.
