The Greatest Generation of Hoarding

(reposted from Portable Elephants)

Over a month ago, my refrigerator broke.  Wonderful Marjorie loaned me a small refrigerator until the old one was fixed.

Using that little fridge made me realize--what the heck was I storing in the big one anyway?  When I cleaned out the old fridge full of rotting food, I found three jars of salsa (all different), four jars of mustard (again, all different), and five bottles of salad dressing (don't ask).  What was I doing with all that stuff?

Every jar and bottle had its unique occasion.  Believe me, I used all of those jars of mustard--some for hot dogs, some for cooking, some for sandwiches.  They all had their place.  But in retrospect, my desire to have everything available at all times seems a little nutty.

I noticed another shopping pattern when I discovered a full container of sour cream, and another container only one quarter full.  See, I don't buy sour cream when I've run out of sour cream.  I buy it when I'm about to run out.  If you see duplicate containers of food in my fridge, I guarantee you that one will be unopened, and the other will be about a quarter full.  I never ever ever run out of sour cream.  Or cottage cheese.  Eggs.  Butter.  You name it.

I know where I picked up this habit--from my parents.  Survivors of the Great Depression, they are part of what Tom Brokaw calls "The Greatest Generation."  I suppose if there's anything you learn from the Depression, it's how to hoard food.  My parents' garage was crammed full of canned food, teetering on rickety shelves.  Green beans, olives, tomatoes, peaches, pears, creamed corn--it was like walking down aisle 7 at Ralphs.  When my mom was in the kitchen, she would ask me with complete confidence, "Honey, could you please get a can of peas from the garage?"  My mom and dad always knew the exact inventory of the garage stash.

Even though I grew up in the relative financial comfort of the sixties and seventies, I adopted the hoarding habit.  I stuff my fridge and pantry full of duplicates in preparation for that moment when I run out of Tillamook cheese, Worchestershire sauce, or bamboo shoots.

Well, you never know the scope of your crazy until you have to clean it out of a stinky, rotting fridge.

This week, a Ukrainian man named Yuri fixed my old enormous fridge--all he did was replace a broken thermostat.  Now as I'm repopulating my fridge, I'm a little more careful.  I actually let myself run out of yogurt before I bought another pint.  I feel more efficient, more green, and more in the moment.

Yes, they were a great generation.  They worked tirelessly because it was the right thing to do, and with limited promise of reward.  They toiled in the present so that we would all have a bright future.  And they hoarded in the present for that moment in the future when they would need a can of tomatoes for their spaghetti sauce.