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Abby playing in the grass for the first time. She doesn't get to do that much at home since the backyard is concrete and the front yard is mostly weeds. Stupid suburbia.

This weekend, my dad sent us home with roughly 5 pounds of leftover turkey and ham.  Doggy-bags from his dinners usually end up being this excessive, because he has never learned the fine art of estimating quantity based on attendance.  Fine, we had 16 people there for dinner, but a 25 pound turkey assumes that each person is eating over a pound each; why then bake an entire bone-in ham to supplement that amount?

I shouldn’t point fingers.  I’m as bad as my father.  My greatest fear is that I’ll host a dinner party where people will end up hungry.  (Okay, that isn’t my greatest fear, but it’s right up there with alien abduction and bubonic plague.)  I fill up the Tupperware containers after everyone leaves and forget about them in the back of the fridge until they start to develop basic levels of sentience.  My favourite part is when liquids turn solid and solids turn liquid and both start to create gasses that threaten to detonate and blow out the back of the fridge.  It’s like grade 6 science class all over again.

Right now my fridge is starting to get that feel to it.  There are thing wrapped in tinfoil that I don’t remember putting in there, which makes me wonder if that is what old sausages do when they are metamorphosing into gremlins.  There is also a bag of gel-based something that I can’t figure out.  It may have been salad once, but every time that I try to pick it up, something behind the crisper starts to scream at me so I have to shut the door before it wakes up the baby.

Having recently had family over, we were left with even more extra food than normal, including a punch bowl of Fresca, cranberry juice, and raspberries that I should have dumped out after the party.  By the time that I got to it, the whole concoction had taken on something of an alcoholic air.  Being alone, I thought it a wise idea to at least try the Fresca-raspberry wine that had been accidently fermented on our counter.  When I woke up 18 hours later, I was surrounded by a pile of empty containers from my fridge, and the thing in the tin foil had laid eggs in my hair.