Of the many things that seem to elude me in this life -- among them perfect hair, the
Pulitzer Prize, and a love letter* -- one thing would seem to be within my grasp. A sense of order and completion, a certain predictability to the way I conduct my life would, I believe, lessen the anxiety that always seems to be living just behind my eyes.

When I was a teacher I had a certain freedom within a rigid structure. A mandated
curriculum and a schedule that determined which students I would address at what hour, along with clear parameters about how and when their progress would be reported gave me a template within which I decided how and when to present a particular author or writing concept. There were many times when the demands of that structure got in my way, but at least I knew what had to be done and how I could work around or through the limitations.

On my own now, I find both my strengths and my weaknesses magnified. While I am very very good at identifying what I want to accomplish and envisioning the process, I am more scattered than ever in my ability to execute the plans. Part of the problem is that there are few, if any, consequences beyond disappointment in myself if my goals are not realized. Other responsibilities, such as paying bills or completing work for the few external organizations I serve, can be met when deadlines approach, but at the expense of those other goals which are purely personal.

I know I would feel better about myself and my life if there were more order and
completion, more things I could point to and be able to say I did that. Today I looked at the calendar and saw that it is the first weekend of the month. It is also the weekend before the beginning of the liturgical season of Lent, a time of spiritual housecleaning, and as I went out early this morning the windless fragrant air promised another near-springlike run of days. It’s time to put away winter for good and move into something new.

And so today I tackled one of those tasks that home economists recommend be done ideally once a month, at minimum once a season. I had not addressed this particular job so thoroughly since just before Thanksgiving, three months ago. 

And so I cleaned the refrigerator, top to bottom, outside and inside, stripping the shelves bare, removing all the racks and bins and washing everything with the recommended mild solution of detergent. I took Windex to the glass shelves until they squeaked. I removed the grill from the air intake at the bottom and brushed it free of dust and hair and bits of linted debris.

I threw out half a package of dried tomatoes, bought for a particular recipe -- one half had found its way into the dish, the other turned to brittle inedible orange chips. I disposed of a nearly-full bottle of fat-free Caesar salad dressing and some other “diet”-type items because they taste awful -- better to use authentic full-flavored things more sparingly and less often than to eat something that does not taste wonderful. 

In the freezer I found a Tupperware box containing a cooked chicken breast crusted over with ice crystals and a small patch of freezer burn visible on the top. The box had a sticker with “March” in my handwriting. I wasn’t sure if that meant it had been placed there in March (1999 or earlier) or if it were due to be thrown out in March (1999 or later). I found petrified peas, a bag of succotash that had gotten torn, and two partially-used cans of frozen orange juice concentrate. 

The vegetables and the juice slid easily down the garbage disposal. I took the chicken outside, along with a zip-lock bag containing the last six or eight biscotti from my holiday baking, now impervious to being dunked in even the strongest coffee. I dumped them in the swale at the edge of our property, and by the time I returned to the kitchen the crows (some which appear to be the size of small airplanes) had gathered to partake.

I arranged everything in order -- the freezer now has boxes of frozen vegetables stacked together with the type clearly visible, and the Weight Watchers frozen entrees I favor for lunch grouped beside the desserts. I retained one thing from the winter season -- a freezer bag full of my special (and quite delicious) homemade mulligatawny soup, to be consumed during the cold snap that will surely visit us before spring settles in for sure.

The task had taken two hours, but I felt satisfied -- efficient, in control, recommitted to planning and creating healthy meals for myself and my family. I marked April 1 in my datebook with “Clean the Refrigerator,” and noted that it is the day before Daylight Saving Time begins. Perhaps the winter of my discontent with myself is nearly at an end.

*See last year's Love Letters, in which I complain about this fact of my life and show a photograph of the one love letter I actually possess.

Snow fell during the night, and the vista is covered in a thin white frosting. But a wet wind is swirling through the trees, slapping raindrops up against the windows. By noon everything will be slush.

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