June 17, 2011

Food Waste Friday: Three Things

Well, not three things, actually. Not three food waste things, anyway. Three mini-stories, two of which are related to each other, one of which is funny and one of which has something to do with food waste.

It's like the riddle in Harry Potter and the Philosopher's Stone that I could never figure out.

Thing One: Food Waste

Yes, my microwave has wasted more food, although this is only a cup of coffee I reheated on Saturday and found on Sunday. Nothing like the cabbage that got left alone for two days, but I have the need to blame inanimate objects.

And need to start a random microwave check.

Clearly my evil fridge has started to lean on my other appliances to join the food wasting party.

Leftover coffee isn't something I normally count as food waste, but there wasn't anything else to take a picture of, and thing two follows nicely from thing one, so: I wasted some cold, unloved, leftover coffee this week. That is all.

(Don't forget, Food Waste Friday is graciously hosted by Kristen over at The Frugal Girl)

Thing Two: Super Mug

Remember my awesome ReStore Score? When we found five unbeatably cheap matching chairs to replace our unmatching chairs of death and dismemberment? I was so excited about those and the end to any potential for costly litigation that I forgot to tell you about my twenty-five cent mug.

My super S mug. The exact same mug that I've drank (drunk? drunken?) all of my hot beverages from at my parents' house since I don't know when.

Well, not exactly the same, since then it would be the same one and there would only be one, you follow?

Exiting only to me, possibly, but exciting nonetheless.

Thing Three: Imaginary Cameras

Miss had a hard time going to sleep last night. She called down for me quite a few times, and by the fifth time I was getting frustrated, so I let her call.

For six minutes (or thereabouts, it's not like I was standing outside her door with a stopwatch or anything) she called:




Finally, up the stairs I go, prepared for barf or blood or some pathetic but unlikely to be strictly true story.

Instead, I open the door and my daughter - who is still lying in bed, still tucked in - lifts her hands up to her face in a box shape and says "Cheese!"

And that's how I know she's mine.