Strange fruit

Lawrence Toppnman:

It's a well-known fact that guys will eat anything they have bought. We'll finish food in a restaurant -- even other peoples' portions -- with zest, and nothing that enters our refrigerators ever finds its way to the trash can. (One exception: Eggs that were so old they refused to slide out of the shell when I cracked them. You just can't eat year-old eggs.)

This impolse must come from the days we hunted with spears and were afraid we would never find another mastodon, once the last one had been picked clean. It doesn't help with dieting, however.

Those English muffins at the bottom of the bread drawer say "Eat me," even if they're starting to turn psychedelic colors. That leftover pasta in Tupperware cries for attention, though it was cooked when azaleas first bloomed. I don't need those calories, but some primeval hoarding instinct tells me to consume them.

I thought of that just now, because the peach I brought to work was flaccid and mealy. It dared me to throw it away, but I didn't take the dare; I'm a guy, so I snarfed it down with my nose closed to avoid tasting it.

This would really be a problem if my fridge held a bunch of old baked goods more fitted to the garbage can than my gullet. But at my house, those don't get a chance to grow old.