The Plumber

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.