I’ve just got to divulge something here. Something I fail to understand.

I live with the King of Condiments.

When we moved, my brother looked in the fridge after we’d unpacked everything, hoping for a small smackerel of something, anything – and found…an ‘empty’ fridge. He exclaimed, “Where are all the bags of stuff I carried up that had to ‘go in the fridge right away’? I’m starving!” I directed his despondent gaze to the ‘frigerator door – and the array of sauces and syrups and jars and bottles and shakers tucked into the shelves. Yes, all five bags of ‘food’ went on the door shelves – the ones reserved solely for Condiments.

I don’t understand this incessant need that Jeremy has to decorate his food and doctor it up with a bunch of sauces and mustards and stuff. Maybe it’s ‘cause my folks are of German descent – a heritage that does not lend itself to savory and succulent cuisine. Maybe I’m culinarily unimaginative.

What I do know is that it is maddening to hear the rattle-rattle of a knife pinging around the sides of yet another nearly-empty mayonnaise jar, when it feels like I just bought some. And the inevitable cry that accompanies this discovery: “Babe! We’re out of mayo!” *sigh* Again?

I love that he loves food. I love that he enjoys and savors the experience of making food and devouring food. It’s novel.

I just don’t understand this whole conspicuous consumption of condiments gig that he’s got rollin’ here. From the rate that these jars go dry, his sandwiches should look like soup – that, or he’s eating far more sandwiches than I envision one single human being could manage.

It’s a mystery. And one I may not ever understand. In the meantime, I need to go add ‘mayo’ to my mental shopping list. Again.