Good Intentions

A meditation upon the contents of my refrigerator

Photo by Rene Cortin (license)

I see you there: my good intentions vegetables, rotting at the bottom of the crisper drawer among the dried remnants of last month’s cilantro.

I chose you from that glorious pile—the brightly colored gifts of the earth. It was not my hands that planted you, tended you, nurtured you in the deluge of spring and the blistering heat of summer. Another brought you to life, bending over your fragile leaves, the pain rippling down his back. I only took of the bounty he enabled you to be, placing you in the cart with self-righteous satisfaction. Our house would be a house of nutrition! My cells would be nurtured by that which nurtured you.

Yes, I placed you in that drawer with the best of intentions. Born beneath the California sun, you would meet your end in a curry, a pasta, or the 450-degree heat of my toaster oven. I would not be one of those mothers who fed my family from the frozen hellscape of Aisle 18. For the past week, I had been pressing to fulfill my duties—change the diapers, fold the laundry, write an article on modern Western decadence (or the lack thereof). Many times, I had taken the easy path: purchased ready-made meals sure to satisfy and fatten. But this week would be different, and it was all thanks to you. I would cook a homemade meal for my family if it was the last thing I did.

Then it happened. My hay fever flared up, or my son started coughing, or Aunt Flo began ringing my insides. I had a bad night’s sleep, or I had to track down the warranty on a damaged household object, or a relative needed a car repair they could not manage to arrange. One after another, the distractions piled up and my good intentions went to waste just like you—you poor, wrinkled thing! Those mushy spots within your flesh tell the sad tale of my incompetence.

Now, you are destined for the rubbish bin, having long since passed your “use by” date. Funny: I feel a bit passed the “use by” date myself. At thirty-six years old, I can no longer make a claim to being “in my early thirties.” I have lived as long past eighteen as before it, and my weight tells the tale. If only I had managed to cook more of my good intentions vegetables, I might be closer to the weight I was before I gave birth to another human being. Another ten pounds now cling to my mid-section, much as my son used to do.

Did you dream that you would one day be put into a beautiful ratatouille? Perhaps a stew flavored with black pepper and cumin? I had dreams too. Before I married my husband, I told him I hoped to publish a book and get my PhD. Right now, I am 0.5 for 2. Dreams change and life changes, but sometimes in the quiet moments, when it is only me with my thoughts, I feel that I have failed. I had good intentions for relationships too—good intentions for personal growth. Nothing has proceeded quite like I foresaw. And still, I have good intentions which are likely to be disappointed.

Looking at you now, growing mold in your forgotten corner, buried under a head of romaine, I think of how full the house is of all my good intentions: books longing to be read, toys longing to be played with, clothes that have seldom been worn. How these objects haunt me! They are the constant reminders of my regrets. “I failed to put that gift to good use. I gave too little attention to middle Platonism!”

I must throw you out now to make room for more good intentions vegetables. I know that food waste is killing the planet—that poor children might have used your nutrition to achieve better test scores. But I tell myself, “Next week will be different. I will make those egg bites. I will toast those sandwiches.” Who knows? Maybe I will succeed this time, but that just means the good intentions books will sit another week unread, the German language will remain unlearned, the carpets will lie unvacuumed. Always, I am forced to choose, and always my intentions are frustrated.

Perhaps when my son is grown, and I have given up on writing: perhaps then my house will be clean and all my vegetables eaten. Until then, you are a fact of my existence. I must simply accept that I cannot have it all, do it all, be it all. How brief is the span of one’s life! How minimal the energy we draw from the sun! As you lay among the crumpled papers and coffee grounds, know that your predicament is proof of my limitations: that I am, in fact, human after all.

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UPDATE: My article “The Meaning I Missed in ‘A Mighty Fortress’” is now available at 1517.org. You can read it here.