I love the idea of a well-stocked pantry—a cupboard full of
cans and jars, everything at my disposal. But the reality is that I’ve
got cans of beans and vegetables that have been moving apartments with
me for the last few years, that I know I will never eat. There is
nothing wrong with this food, but for some reason I’ve decided these
items are not worth eating, so I let them sit there, taking up space,
feeding no one.
Last weekend, starving, refrigerator empty, but unwilling to leave
the apartment on a cold day, my guy and I made a meal from the dusty
things dwelling in his cupboard—stewed tomatoes, pinto beans,
chipotle adobo peppers, Uncle Ben’s rice—and some ugly frozen
chicken thighs. It was delicious; I was so proud of our
resourcefulness. Thinking smugly about that stew the next day, I
suddenly felt sick as I remembered the day two years ago, when,
desperately hungry, I made a box of couscous that had been haunting my
life and cupboard forever. It tasted terrible, so I checked the box.
Expiration date: August 1999. What a waste. The moral: Use it or lose
it, preferably at one of our many local food banks. 
