Habit of Mind

I’m pretty sure it’s my refrigerator’s fault that I don’t have better eating habits.

Sure, I’m a little persnickety about the kinds of vegetables I’ll eat, but a short list is better than none at all, right? It’s not like I don’t choose a salad for a meal at least once or twice a week. I just can’t quite manage it when I’m at home and the blame is exclusively on my ‘fridge.

I do buy fresh veggies, you see. I’ll pick out some lovely, crisp green beans with every intention of lightly sautéing them with some butter-flavored cooking spray, a lot of garlic, and some slivered almonds. Or I’ll get broccoli so I can steam it just so – tender, but not soggy or limp – in my rice cooker. I’ll even buy salad fixins in an attempt to approximate some of my favorites (the Savannah Chopped Salad from McAlister’s comes to mind: greens, grilled chicken breast, dried cranberries, cucumbers, sliced almonds, bleu cheese, evil death berries tomatoes [for folks that – unlike me – will ingest them in their larval stage], topped with a tasty, tangy shallot vinaigrette). Barring that, some grilled shrimp, chicken, or salmon atop a simple Caesar salad will do (but only if there’s plenty of parmesan cheese, of course).

Why is it, then, with such delicious plans at the ready do I end up throwing out noxious brown, dripping science experiments a week later?

MY REFRIGERATOR.

When I open the door to gaze upon my options, I cannot see into the crisper bins. And apparently come meal time I’m a toddler who has not yet discovered object permanence; if I cannot see it, it does not exist. (Either that or I’m simply blinded by hunger.)

And no, frozen vegetables aren't really an option if the goal is to get me to actually eat said vegetables. YUCK.

“Buy a new refrigerator!” you say? Those things are expensive – especially the swank kind where you can see everything without the frosted glass (which seems kind of pointless – and possibly redundant – in a refrigerator). I’m saving up to buy a house, after all, and between the down payment and the 4-6 months of reserves required, a new luxury version of an appliance doesn’t fit.

Sure, I could make a list of meals for the week and post that on my ‘fridge door, you might be thinking. I wouldn’t even see it for the mass of inspirational quotes and to-do lists and sassy retro magnets, though.

So it’s still kind of my refrigerator’s fault.

Heck, while I’m at it I might even blame Mother Nature for making such vital-to-our-health things spoilable in the first place.