I don’t know what was in the air last weekend, but for some reason, food mishaps ran rampant in our household. First, there was the fridge that was left slightly open all night long, which meant the light was on all night long. In the morn- ing when I walked into the kitchen, the brand-new, unopened gallon of milk was close to boiling from being up against the light bulb for hours. That little mishap took its toll on everything in the top shelves, along with any type of meat or dairy product in the fridge.

There I was, looking forward to my Saturday morning mug of coffee, and instead I was sopping hot milk off the top shelf and discarding the new bottle of distastefully warm apple juice that normally wouldn’t have made it into the fridge before the last bottle was finished – but of course, that time I had room.

I grumpily showered and got dressed so I could drive to the store and replenish breakfast supplies, milk being a top priority. I’m not sure how I restrained myself from going through Dunkin Donuts’ drive-through for a quick cup of java before shopping.

I wracked my brain trying to recall if I had opened the fridge for any reason before going to bed the night before. But it was not my doing – or rather undoing. Spouse, upon seeing the melted milk cap, fessed up to getting a drink before bed, and hadn’t realized the door didn’t close all the way.

Am I the only one who experiences a sense of relief when I’m not the one who committed the infraction on hand? Not that I enjoy having anything on my wonderful husband to – you know – dredge up when he thinks he has the upper hand in some future situation. I mean… I don’t have any immediate plans to utter the phrase “refrigerator door.”

The next day, I did my typical three-store search and seizure of groceries needed for the week. (I forgot my coupon box in the car at two of them). At my second stop, I picked up a cold rotisserie chicken to cut up for quick lunches. I distinctly remember hearing the clunk of something tipping over in the back seat and being aware that it could only be the bag with the chicken. Remember to check for that bag, I told myself.

Guess what I forgot by the time I arrived home? You know what this means, right? It means now he can use the phrase “rotisserie chicken” against me.

I blame it on the fact that the air conditioning in the car I was driving had decided to call it quits on one of the hottest days of the summer. I dragged several bags into the house, sweating, exhausted and slightly hostile.

Spouse was assigned to putting away the items that needed to be kept cold while I guzzled a bottle of water, changed into socially unacceptable shorts and tank top, and collapsed on the bed under the ceiling fan.

Monday morning rolled around, and with it the thought that lunches would be easy to put together because of that rotisserie chicken… except the dang chicken was still in the bag in the Impala’s back seat. So Spouse and I started our Monday off in typical Monday fashion, scrambling to find something to pack up for lunch.

Tonight, as we were preparing dinner together, I suddenly noticed the freezer door was slightly ajar. Again, I found myself replaying the last 15 minutes or so in my mind to ensure it wasn’t my fault before I asked Spouse. He admitted to opening it and not realizing it didn’t close all the way.

We didn’t lose anything this time, thanks to my quick reaction… and don’t you dare say “rotisserie chicken.”

— Janine Talbot is adjusting to her empty nest in southern Maine with her spouse of 32 years and two and a half cats. She can be reached at janinevtalbot@gmail.com.