As a kid, putting up the Christmas tree normally involved an hour of bending endless wire branches into odd angles as my parents shoved each prickly arm into the tree’s base. Inevitably my sister and I would lose interest as my mom struggled to wrap limb after limb with white twinkle lights. We would sneak away to avoid the monotonous prep work, only to miraculously appear when it was time to hang ornaments. (It’s called “strategic bladdering.” It is also the reason why I always seemed to have to pee whenever it was time to clear the table after dinner.)
Years later, as a thirtysomething, I’m on my own to lug holiday cheer up the basement steps and wrestle my own artificial Douglas fir into submission. However, modern times have eased the process. A thousand blessings to whomever came up with the idea of pre-lit trees. Instead of individual branches, I only have to shove three shrub sections together. No wrapping of individual lights around each bough. Just a new holiday tradition: violating all electrical safety codes and holding my breath that, when I plug the last strand in, the tree will light up. This year, I say a prayer to baby Jesus and wedge the overloaded extension cord plug into the wall. The lights pop on and the tree springs to life. I send a mental fist bump up to the heavens. If the tree had stayed dark, I would have opted to go lightless. I'd play it off as some sort of trendy subversiveness. Non-lit trees are all the rage, you know, I’d say to guests as I handed them a craft beer and they stared at my dark symbol of Yuletide doom.
Since getting the tree in a locked, upright position feels like a cardio workout, it’s time for a snack break. And that’s when I remember something. And the evening goes from good to great.
I run to the refrigerator and open the door. There it sits, in all her circular cardboard glory. I breathe, “hello, gorgeous.”
I run to the refrigerator and open the door. There it sits, in all her circular cardboard glory. I breathe, “hello, gorgeous.”
I have Brie in my fridge.
Do you eat Brie? If you do, do you remember the first time you tried it? Somehow, I had missed this particularly culinary treat until I was well into my thirtieth year. I recall seeing it at dinner parties in my twenties but it always left me perplexed. The innards oozed out of the rind. Honey or nuts or jam spackled the top. Pear slices and pieces of bread surrounded the perimeter. I didn't even know where to begin. What’s supposed to be eaten and what’s just garnish? I still thought cheeseballs were the height of dinner party sophistication. This thing was entirely out of my league. I gave it a pass and moved on to the safety of cheese cubes impaled on tooth picks.
After years of avoidance, I finally tried Brie at a friend’s house. And. I. Couldn’t. Stop. Eating. It. Why — WHY — did I sidestep this for so long? It’s melted cheese and bread! Add bacon and it’s my personal holy trinity. I must have dove into that glorious circle of gooeyness twenty times. I dipped. I drizzled. I delayed dinner so I could continue my attack. After dinner I made up reasons to go back into the kitchen so I could snag another bite, offering to take everyone’s plates to the sink. ONE plate at a time. I’m strategically thoughtful that way.
Needless to say, the next time I bought groceries I scavenged the supermarket aisles for Brie. It took me a few trips but eventually I found it. Turns out that Brie isn’t by the blocks of sharp cheddar or the individually packaged slices of American. Who knew there was a whole other section of dairy over by the fancy bread counter.
I had managed to stave off the temptation to immediately eat it, so there it sits in my refrigerator, ready to join the decorating festivities. I wait the obligatory fifteen minutes as it bakes, contemplating the fact that longing really does make the heart grow fonder. As soon as the timer beeps I take the warm, oozing Brie and French bread out of the oven and place it on to a wooden cutting board I now reserve for cheese presentation only. I pour myself a glass of wine and bring it, along with Brie and Co. into my family room. I set the culinary delights down amidst the clutter of Christmas on my coffee table.
Now this is how you deck the halls.
As I sip and munch, I think about how, merely ten years ago, my pre-Christmas run-up was very different. I was still in college. I lived in a crowded apartment with six roommates. I used a bathroom that had one shower and two toilets. I was bemoaning some project in my accounting class and arguing with my landlord about the gas smell coming from our furnace. Now here I am, sitting on a couch — not futon — decorating my full sized — not sixteen inch tall — Christmas tree as I nosh on Brie — not Cheez Whiz — and drink white wine —not flat Sprite. I’m sure my college self would scoff at how lame and old the scene looks. It is the most banal picture of grownuptitude a kid can think of.
And, you know what? Instead of feeling uncomfortable or fake, as I feel about many grown-up things -- taxes, networking events, checking into a hotel -- this time it feels fantastic.
It’s official. Getting old kicks ass.
After a few more hours of stocking-hanging and decoration-placing, the transformation is complete and I clean up for the night. I wash the dishes and cork up the wine. Almost all the Brie is gone so I drop it in the trash can under the sink and head to bed.
The next morning, I wake up at 6:30 per usual. (Another road sign on the way to Old Fartdom.) Ready to embrace another day of adult awesomeness.
And something goes horribly wrong…
I live alone. I’ve lived alone for around eight years at this point. Roommates can be pleasant at times but I’m a creature of solitude at heart. I’m like an old iPhone. My battery only lasts about five hours before I need to be plugged into a room by myself and recharge. Living alone is perfect for this disposition.
The downside to living alone is that you start to lose a bit of common sense. Everyone has ideas for behavior that they wouldn’t do if other people were around to see it. Then you live alone, and you lose that impetus to self-edit. Eventually, things start going a bit off piste.
Take, for instance, the five second rule. You know, the widely held belief that, if you drop a piece of food on the ground, you can still eat it as long as you pick it up within five seconds of impact. Of course, there are parameters for this rule. It usually only extends to dry, solid food. Anything sticky is immediately ruled out because inevitably some lint or hair will stick and ruin it.
But then you live alone. And the parameters of the five-second rule start to expand…
I wake up the morning, turn on the Christmas tree, and go into the kitchen. I stare inside the refrigerator, looking for something to eat for breakfast.
Hmmm …. what to eat…. … hmmm … eggs? …. nah, I’d have to was the skillet…. Maybe yogurt? … oh, okay, that expiration date was last year not gonna happen … hmmm … nothing in here sounds good … you know what does sound good is Brie … man, that Brie last night was amazing… I should have bought two when I was at the store … I bet there was still some left in the rind …. I wish I hadn’t thrown it away last night… what a waste … I could be eating it for breakfast …I could always go to the store … ugh … then I’d have to put on real pants … not gonna happen … but that Brie still sounds really good … I wonder ….
That’s when I hear the siren song calling out to me from the cabinet under the sink.
I could skip to the end. You likely know what's coming at this point. But, just for kicks, let me take you through the journey. The journey of contemplating whether or not you should eat something out of the trash.
Stage 1: Denial and Isolation
I open the cabinet door and pull out the trash can. There lay the remaining carcass of the Brie from last night. Normally, anything that passes below the mouth of the trash can I consider dead to me. But, in the morning light, the trash can suddenly transforms into an extra large Tupperware container. And there’s no one here to stop me from considering this as a viable option. So I continue to consider it.
Stage 2: Pain and Guilt
Why in the world did I throw this away? Clearly it still had potential! Just look at all the cheese drippings on the side alone? That’s enough to cover three pieces of bread, easy. And geez, it looks so good.
Stage 3: Anger
YOU IDIOT! RIGHT NOW YOU COULD BE EATING BRIE IF YOU HAD JUST TAKEN THE TIME TO REFRIGERATE IT YESTERDAY? YOU DON’T DESERVE BRIE.
Then again, what should it matter? I really want it. How dare societal conventions prevent me from having what I want? Any why? Just because what I want spent twelve hours in a trash can? I set my thermostat for 65 at night. That practically makes my entire house the refrigerated section of the grocery store.
Stage 4: Bargaining
Okay, in my defense, the Brie is the only thing in the trash can. I wouldn’t even consider eating it if there was other rubbish in it. The trash can liner is basically just like a white version of plastic wrap. Sure, it’s a dairy product that has been at a relatively cool room temperature overnight. But isn’t cheese better after it’s been aged? Really, the Brie should be BETTER because it sat in the trash can overnight.
Stage 5: Depression and Loneliness
I can’t believe I’m considering eating something out of my trash. I’m pathetic. I’m alone. This is probably why I’m alone. I’ll always be alone. So really, what does it matter? There’s no one here to judge me.
Stage 6: The Upward Turn
Really, why am I fighting this? This could be a good thing! And plus, earlier this fall I ate a few bites of that egg-and-cheese croissant sandwich that had been left over from the morning tailgate and baking in a hot car while I was at the game. I felt fine. This wouldn’t even be as bad as that risk.
It should be fine if I warm it up.
Plus, I’ll warm it up in the oven, I’m not an animal.
So yes, I do the unthinkable. I dumpster dive in my own trash. I reach down, peel the Brie rind from the bottom of the trash bag, and toss it on a baking sheet. Which brings us to the final stage.
Stage 8: Acceptance and Hope
This will be just fine!
...I wonder what other perfectly good food I could have eaten out of my trash over the years?
(In case you’re wondering, it tasted delicious.)
