Empty Larder

It's been a busy week. The sink is full of dishes. The house is strewn with coffee cups. And there's nothing in the pantry; nothing good, anyway. It looks like a half-hearted yard sale in there: a jar of honey; a bag of tangerine rinds; some dried mushrooms; rice.

The fridge, too, smells increasingly suspicious. But the hint of rot, of abandon, pervades the entire house. Our kitchen, at the center of it all, has become a subtracting-machine. There's no bread, no eggs, no fresh vegetables. Before the weekly delivery came yesterday, we'd even run out of milk. How did we fall so far?

The notion of a more-or-less empty larder can, of course, be perfectly romantic. Imagine yourself alone in the Yukon tundra, cold, bored, and starving. You forge ahead, losing hope as you go. And then, a miracle. You happen upon an abandoned cabin, nestled amongst the snowdrifts. Once inside, you build a fire, boil some water, and search the pantry. There you find some basic imperishables: flour, olive oil, a can of tomatoes, honey, baking soda, tuna, beans, and four sealed jars of Bovril. Suddenly, it's a game, and you're Crusoe: what can you cobble together from these carefully-husbanded elements? An array of fresh pita, accompanied by a savory bean purée? A simple fish stew with flour dumplings?

Phooey.

Our kitchen hasn't fallen out of time. We've fallen out of it. Each sidelong glance into the kitchen this past week has been cast with a growing sense of distance. There is no longer time for gourmandise. There is only avoidance, and breakfast cereal.

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Tomorrow, though, we will arise, clear-eyed and better-rested, and go shopping. Some friends are crossing the tundra for a visit, so we'll have to sweep out the cabin, stoke the fires, and add some fresh straw to the mattresses.

Fish stew with dumplings? Perhaps, but not from the larder.