Well, it finally happened. The day has come when there is no longer any single-serving Polly-O string cheese under this roof. It has all been consumed. Every last ounce. I may or may not be able to attribute the carpal tunnel syndrome forming in my right hand to the number of times I’ve transformed a tube of mozzarella into a heap of ecru dairy-threads, but I feel a great sense of accomplishment at having pulled a Rumpelstiltskin on these people, spinning no fewer than 90 (two Costco bags’ worth minus the handful that Arlo ate before deciding they no longer aligned with the preferences of his delicate palate) into gold (or food that all my kids will eat, which is basically the same thing).
With that sense of accomplishment comes a kind of relief: no longer do I feel burdened by the obligation I felt to ensure that none went to waste. No longer do I have to expend the mental energy required to repurpose it in a creative way that will result in its being consumed. No longer do I have to spend all that time stringing it so the gauge of each strand was just right (not too thick and not too thin, which means a diameter of 1/8 of an inch, give or take a millimeter). At the same time, I kind of miss that silly passion project, and I feel a small sadness to be divested of that investment despite the fact that ridding the house of the stuff by way of ingestion was the endgame all along. However, will I miss the mess of peeled-back wrappers on the countertop, bound for a landfill and reminding me of the environmental evils implicit in the profligate use of plastic packaging permeating consumer culture? Will I miss the sight of my own contribution to subverting the salvation of Earth as it pertains to natural resources? Will I miss that AT ALL? Polly-No.
The washed ziplock bags hanging to dry in my kitchen drive me much more insane than the sum of their parts, but #motherearth.