The Big Sweep -- The Fine Art of Letting Go

I am of Yankee heritage and descended from frugal people.  “Waste not, want not” was ingrained in my conscience at an early age.  This makes it hard for me to throw things away.  When Annette called upon me to help her weed out the refrigerator, I knew I must be strong.  The very first “Good Eating” column I wrote was about cleaning the fridge.  The title was “Spoiled Food Guilt.” 

What about the jar simply labeled chili powder?  I looked at it. I sniffed it.  I put some on the end of my finger and tasted it.  I’m a man who’s serious about chili.  I like to get it from Chimayo, New Mexico, preferably in person.  This powder was suspect and of indeterminate age.  Out it went.  So did a bag of dried chilies of questionable provenance. 

And so it proceeded. There was a large bottle half full of fish sauce.  I’ve cut my salt intake and have been making less Thai food lately.  The bottle hit the trash followed by some peanut oil that had a suspicious smell. 

I began to realize I was giving up more than ingredients; I was acknowledging a change in the style of my life.   I’m not only eating healthier, but more simply.  I need to face facts. I may become inspired to cook a fancy meal once in a while, but it happens so seldom it makes sense to buy what I need in small quantities, and not keep the stuff on hand. 

The principle has spread to other aspects of my life.  I pondered over a biography of Omar Bradley on the living room bookshelf. It has stood there for thirty-five years impressing visitors with my erudition, but not improving my mind.  If you think you’re more likely to read it than I was, it will be for sale at the book table of the Antiquarian Society Fair next August. 

I haven’t discarded my hiking boots yet, but I’m now more apt to stroll than hike.  I’ve lost some weight since last year’s cardiac scare, and the heavy down parka with the fur-fringed hood may fit me again, but it’s too warm for any but below-zero days, and I might just spend those inside from now on. 

Not everyone accepts the inevitability of letting go.  At 97 my father wouldn’t agree to give up driving his car, and I had to take the keys.  Twice he has asked for them back. For me there are harder sacrifices ahead than musty books and salty sauce. It helps to look at them as liberations from the past.  I have more room on the bookshelves and in the kitchen.  Of course I too have an expiration date.  It’s a little blurred, and I can’t quite make it out, but it will come.  Up to now the liberations haven’t been so bad.  About the final one, we’ll see.