Figs. I hate them. I hate their shape. I hate their smell. I hate everything about them. “Look at me! I’m a fig! I’m exotic!” No, you’re just gross.
The only thing I hate more than figs is Satan. And Yasser Arafat.
H, however, loves figs. Adores them, in fact. Something she told me multiple times while we were doing some grocery shopping the day before she left for home. She told me this because figs were on sale for $0.99 per box of ten or something. I didn’t pay attention to number as I was already turning away in disgust.
H dragged me back and wheedled me into buying not one, but TWO boxes of stupid figs. “I’ll eat all of them,” she told me. She swore up and down she would have nothing but figs for breakfast, lunch, and dinner.
But she did not have figs. She did NOT have figs. She had maybe one and left the rest in my fridge.
And there they sit. Taunting me with their fig-ness. Making my entire fridge smell of figs instead of stale bread and baking soda. I am now in a quandary. My upbringing by an excessively frugal father is telling me to save them for a rainy day. Maybe something will happen and I won’t be able to afford to buy anymore groceries and be stuck with the contents on my fridge. Maybe the Apocalypse will come and people will be beating down my door, willing to give me everything they own for my figs. In either case, I shouldn’t throw them out, because that’s wasting food, and there are starving children in India.
On the other hand, I should be able to do whatever I want. I’m an adult, sort of–at least by law. This is my apartment, I spent my money on the figs, and if I want to throw them out, then I’ll damn well throw them out. AND I won’t reuse the plastic containers they came in. I’ll just throw those out too, because they smell like figs. What now, Herr Dad?!
Perhaps I could ship the figs to the starving Indian children? But then this would only pass on the curse of the figs.
What have you done about the proverbial figs in your proverbial fridge?