24
Tammy
Three-quarters of a tray of moldy mac and cheese from the Platt family across the street. A Ziploc bag labeled shrimp + pork dumplings (chives, no garlic) from my mother’s coworker. A completely untouched rotisserie chicken from Costco. I held each item up for a good sniff before throwing it all out. It was 5:00 am, the day after my father’s funeral.
I was working my way down the fridge door when my mother came into the kitchen. ‘Keep the ketchup,’ she said, pointing at the butter compartment, which was filled with a collection of packets from take-out orders. My mother used to roll her eyes at my father’s stockpiling – a habit she had cured herself of once we had left Flushing. I had taken her side when she called his behavior ‘low-class,’ but now, I touched the shiny red pla
