Phyllis’ Blog

It’s hard for me to trash some stuff. Not because I think I’ll miss it, but because I imagine the landfill rounding up several inches. I get this vision whenever I hold an empty Plastic Box in my hands. I’m talking about those eternally sturdy containers with a “4″ or “5″ molded into the raised triangle on their bottoms.

So I’ve got a cupboard stuffed with those round Plastic Boxes in a full contingent of sizes, all waiting for a new assignment. About half the time the cupboard door doesn’t close tightly, it’s so full. When I start to knick up my knuckles getting a stack in or out, I finally take a bunch of boxes out and retire them to the back room of the basement, where teetering piles are gathering, mostly out of sight.

I’m a partly converted locavore, but one of the dark, dirty secrets of eating locally for me is this accumulation of untold numbers of Plastic Boxes. I shop regularly at our downtown farmers market, where the vendors hand me their produce either in Plastic Boxes or Plastic Bags (yeah, it’s almost as hard for me to toss Bags as it is Boxes).

I do carry my grandma’s wicker market basket (it’s at least 50 years old and still doing its job), and I do return empty egg cartons to the woman who sells me eggs. I’ve thought of coming equipped with part of my army of empty Plastic Boxes and Bags and asking that the stand holders put the chicken livers and the fresh pumpkin in them while I wait . . . and while a restless crowd grows behind me as this whole operation consumes precious minutes. My minutes, of course, which I’ve already decided to sacrifice for the cause. But also those of the vendor and the other shoppers who clearly hadn’t agreed to support this practice of purity.

I’ve thought of returning my clean empty Plastic Boxes to the standholder who sold them to me (filled, of course) in the first place. But I’m pretty sure that would ruffle the health inspectors.

Sometimes when I’ve cooked a big meal and have lots of leftovers, I pull out a raft of Plastic Boxes and fill them for my mother and daughters and son-in-law. I love getting those Boxes out of our house almost as much as I like giving the food away.

Then my mother gives the Boxes back. I tell her I don’t want them. She says she doesn’t either. She has discovered that she can give them to the annual fundraising auction at the retirement community where she and my dad live. Who knows what happens to them, if they’re sold or if they’re not, but at least she and I feel a little less responsible for their future at that point.

When I send food home with our daughters, I confess to chortling about handing off as many Plastic Boxes as I can. Two years ago, our older daughter broke her leg and needed a bit of help around the house. That’s when I discovered her cupboard of empty Plastic Boxes. I closed the door quietly and asked no questions.

Our younger daughter has been snickering at me for years about this practice of mine. She suspects that this penchant is fueled as much by thriftiness as by an ecologically attuned conscience. She’s probably right.

She prefers buying storage containers with matching lids, thus saving herself lots of frustration and many minutes by not needing to search for Lids that fit. I remind her that I did take a couple of hours a few years ago to organize and categorize my Boxes and Lids.

She’s not impressed. And then she grins and reminds me that she drives a diesel car.