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2001-08-23 | 9:27 a.m.

Yesterday I cleaned out the refrigerator, something I had not done in ... well, I can't remember ever doing it completely. If you're wondering how long I've had the fridge, my sister pulled it out of storage for me a couple of years ago. (She also loaned me her Maytag washer and dryer, which she had previously refused to lend to her own daughter, Bambi, causing a minor family crisis.)

There was a pool of sludge in the bottom that I came to think of as "refrigerator molasses." You know, like refrigerator cookies. I think it was made of soda pop and maple syrup. A friend said, "Oh! Maple syrup's the worst!" and I said tree sap would be worse, but luckily we don't keep tree limbs in the fridge. Or as I sometimes call it, my freaky diary. (Because that's what it sounds like when you say it in Spanish.) I once read that after American missionaries arrived in some remote areas of Africa, "Frigidaire" became one of the most popular girls' names in the region.

Actually, the hardest part to clean was the remains of a spilled salsa tub. Ay, chihuahua!

My favorite storebought salsa picante is Casa Sanchez Mild Salsa Roja. In the old days I could only find it at the Berkeley Bowl (my favorite grocery store in the world, but too far away to visit much). But now they carry it in a lot of the grocery stores. And if you decide to try it, remember it goes bad in a few days, unlike the salsas on your grocer's shelf.

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Jasper has started the phase where he talks to himself. Just now, sitting on the potty, he said, "Longnecks and people are nice. And T-Rexes are not nice." What's that, Jasper? "I'm talking about my pants."

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