The connoisseur of condiments

I’m just going to say it out loud: It’s too hot to cook!

The only thing I’m making these days is reservations.

As I write this, I envision my Scotty, Hamish, grinning from ear to ear. The thought of me walking through the door with a new doggie bag is more than he can fathom. Oh sure, I can leave it in the fridge for two days and then throw it out, or I can deconstruct this overpriced yummy for my tummy like those TV food shows. I usually dice it up and put it in his bowl, or I can put it on a lovely dinner plate, all laid out spiffy like I got it the night before, and sit down at the table. He’ll be watching like a hawk in eager anticipation. On cue, I’ll say, “Oh, do you want some of this?” His eyes will light up, and I’ll place the entire dish in front of him to gobble up. He loves it when he doesn’t have to eat out of a bowl. It’s heaven, pure heaven.

There is no more room in my fridge since the King of Ketchup, Prince of Pickles, Captain of Capers (a.k.a. BBB), started collecting condiments. Apparently, I am the Jester of Jams because I have no willpower. I never met a condiment I didn’t like. As long as I have a couple of shiny pretzels to dip into some sour cream concoction, I’m a happy girl.

Of course, we all have our favorites. He is the Man About Mayonnaise. Originally, I designed, at least in my mind, a carousel for leftovers in my refrigerator. I’d enter the kitchen after stuffing my cheeks because my eyes were bigger than my belly, then waltz over to the refrigerator and find a shelf on the carousel for Thursday’s leftovers. If it’s Wednesday, it’s pasta. If it’s Friday, it’s fish. Brilliant, I know ... huh?

Unfortunately, I haven’t quite figured out how to put a round carousel in a square fridge. I’m a Cains mayonnaise girl, and he’s gone over to the Duke’s side. I guess you could say he’s the Duke of Duke’s. But if I’m making lobster rolls, there’s only one choice: Cains mayonnaise.

Our shelves are filled with bottles and jars of one-spoonful wonders. I worry that if some stranger knocked on our door begging to find refuge for a baby’s bottle of milk, I’d have to tell him there’s no room at the inn. Even the Rolls-Royce that pulls up beside me looking for Grey Poupon couldn’t get one square inch of shelf space.

Being the organizer of all things in plastic containers, I’ve categorized every chutney, butters from unsalted to Maine, Ireland and the Land of 10,000 Lakes. But nothing comes close to cheese: tubs, slices or shredded. We have more cheese than France.

And please don’t forget legitimate dog food, too. Hamish has his own side of the refrigerator. Until then, it’s just a sea of white takeout containers, soy sauce packets, 2-ounce cups of sliced ginger and more. Someday I’m going to be a millionaire when I get my patent for the leftover carousel. I relish that day!