A few years ago I heard a story of recent immigrants to the
United States who dumbfounded at the sight of spoiled food. In the impoverished country of their birth, they
had never seen such a thing happen. Only when they moved to the United States did
they learn it was possible for food to go bad.
I think of this every time I notice something fuzzy on a
leftover or when my nose tells me there is something rotten in the potato bin. Admittedly,
part of it is that I’m a cheapskate and I hate to waste money. But I do genuinely
want to honor the earth and the food it provides, and I also know that someone,
somewhere, would be grateful for the scraps from my table.
So when I remembered we had a few chicken breasts in the
fridge, I was optimistic, even though I was pretty sure they were past their
prime. They did not pass the smell test, but after I rinsed them they seemed
like they might be okay. I put them in the crock pot on low for a few hours,
hoping that whatever nasty thing was growing on them could be cooked out. Even
as they were cooking they didn’t smell right, so I was increasingly leaning
toward tossing them.
Not quite ready to give up, I took a bite and spit it out
immediately. Nope. Not gonna do it.
I turned on the disposal and flushed the chicken down. Then,
unexpectedly, I could hear the sink start to fill, and then bits of chicken
started coming back up. I turned off the disposal; the water had definitely stopped
draining. Shoot.
I grabbed the plunger and went at it. The water stayed put,
milky from the bits of chicken floating about. Our home is blessed with pipes
with couplings that can be easily removed to check for blockage. I put a pan
underneath the sink and began to disassemble, but the force of the water was
greater than anticipated, and the warm chicken soup went everywhere inside the
cabinet, and a great deal of it on me as well.
The trap was clear. I pulled off a few more pieces; everything
checked out. I took a knife and poked at the piece of pipe that disappeared
into the wall: nothing. I reassembled the pipes and ran more water. The sink
filled again.
At least three more times I disassembled, cleaned out what I
could, and put the thing back together, with the same results. When Bill came home
after a long, hard day, he was greeted with a mess in the kitchen and a wife
who was more than a little upset. Bill thinks like an engineer and often can
fix things that I can’t, but he, too, was unable to find the blockage.
I called the plumber early the next day. When I have to call
in a professional, I always hope that things are not solved so easily that I
feel stupid for calling, but not so complicated that the bill goes into double
digits. My hopes were unfulfilled. The plumber was with us all day. ALL DAY. He
used tools. He checked schematics. He drilled holes. He seemed almost as
frustrated as I was—but of course, he was getting paid for his frustration.
Finally, he found the problem: about six feet of pipe
clogged with all manner of table scraps, the residue of 12 years of our life, the
remnants of countless meals slowly accumulating in a plastic tube between the
floor joists and the ceiling tiles. He cut the pipe and the goo came gushing
out; it could have been much worse, but the clog was in the pipe above the
bathroom. The shower and the plumber were covered with it, and the smell
knocked me back…a cross between puke, swamp, and landfill. Nasty.
The plumber felt bad about the mess; I assured him I was more
than willing to clean it up if it meant I could have my kitchen back. He
replaced the pipe, filled the holes, and tested everything to make sure were
back in business. It was well past the dinner hour before Steve the plumber pulled
out, a fat check in his wallet. And even then he said, with a wink, that the
next time I called, he’d let me go through to voice mail.
It was a long, expensive day, and more than once I wish I
had just tossed the chicken when I first suspected it was bad. But the truth
is, this was not about the chicken, and it was not my fault. There, I’ve said
it. From time to time I have to remind myself that sometimes the bad stuff rains
down unexpectedly, splattering everywhere. If you’re lucky, the bad stuff can
be fixed; if you’re luckier, all it costs you is money. And if you’re really
lucky, you can absorb the cost without it cutting too deeply.
At the end of the day—even this day—I am reminded of all the
things for which I am grateful: for running water, for help that comes when I
dial a number, for our beautiful home that gives us space to commune. Even the
muck is a reminder of all the good gifts we have been given. On this day—every
day—we are blessed beyond measure.
