I love it when a good story comes together. The words just flow onto the page like syrup over pancakes. The plot unfolds seamlessly. Like the rising of the sun, the images created by a well-crafted narrative reveal themselves in an ever-changing spectacle that captures the imagination and inspires the soul.

Then there’s today. The story lies smoldering like a steaming pile of compost.

I’ve never found the magic bullet for writing. I can’t explain why sometimes it flows and sometimes it just sits until mold begins to form. Putting a story together should be easier than stuffing a cat in a sack, but it’s not. Not that I’ve ever put a cat in a pillowcase and held the end closed.

But the diligent writer pushes through. He puts words down on paper. He doesn’t care if they make any sense. He just assumes that if he connects enough words that, somehow, wisdom and humor and anguish and courage will reveal themselves in his creation. Try enough random sentences and the page will give birth to a story.

So far, the story portal is holding tight at 2cm. The birth canal is closed. So, today is just going to be a “share” day. It’ll be great. I’ll tell you about some meaningless adventure of my life, and you’ll question why you ever wasted seven precious and unrecoverable minutes reading it.

Here goes.

Speaking of mold, I have to get inside my fridge and do some cleaning. I noticed a container of carrots in the back which, I’m pretty sure, have been there since Thanksgiving. What I can see through the opaque plastic looks to be orange in color and I assume it to be carrots.

I don’t know what it is about guys and leftovers, especially single old guys. It’s a dangerous combination. I’m basically unafraid to eat anything unless it has green fuzz growing on it. The smell test doesn’t do me much good because my smeller is not all that sharp. I depend on the green fuzz to ward me off. No fuzz and I’ll likely eat it.

I have started labeling and dating some things that go into the fridge. This does two things for me. One, it gives me some idea of how long it’s been since I first placed the object into a container with the best of intentions for a repeat supper.

I don’t mean to ignore leftovers. I like leftovers. Some things are actually better left over than when first served. Take banana pudding for example. I have no idea why this is true but left over banana pudding is far better than fresh banana pudding. Explain that one to me.

You know it’s true.

I have had the absolute best banana pudding fresh out of the kitchen, pudding so good you’d almost fall out in spiritual rapture. So good you’d find yourself speechless, unable to find the words suitable for describing how good this banana pudding is as it goes across the palate. Banana pudding so delicious it feels sinful to enjoy it.

Then, stick it in the fridge overnight, and the next day it’s even better. How is that possible?

If only this could happen with broccoli. Why is this phenomenon limited to banana pudding? If broccoli got better the longer it sits in a plastic tub in the back of the fridge, I’d have less of an expanding waistline. My culinary options would expand exponentially.

Which reminds me of the second reason why my labels are helpful. If the plastic tub has a label on it, at least I know what I’m throwing away, i.e., broccoli ceases to look like broccoli after a few months. I have opened refrigerated containers before and stared into the leftover abyss wondering what the heck this odd-looking object in front of me used to be.

You might think that since I’m throwing something away, identifying the once-upon-a-time savory dish is not important. And you’d be right. But you’d miss the entertainment value. Going through my fridge can be sort of like the food show version of Name That Tune.

Since I live alone, I sometimes take pictures of anything I cannot identify and send them to friends who appreciate the mystery and enjoy solving puzzles.

“What do you think this is?”

“Man, that’s ugly. Could be green beans.”

“Naw. I haven’t saved any green beans in a while.”

“Stick a fork in it and see what happens. If there’s some resistance, it might be pork chops.”

“You know what? That’s it. I had pork chops two months ago. I was going to warm them up again, but they got pushed to the back and I forgot I had them.”

My mental lapse in regard to leftovers is a cause for great anguish at times. I don’t mind throwing out old pizza, which by the way is easy to identify no matter how long it’s been in a Ziploc baggy. Rice is easy. I don’t know why I ever save rice. Baked beans. Casseroles of most any kind. I love casseroles, but they eventually turn to mush and are rather painless to toss.

I do mind, however, throwing out ribs and country fried steak and roast beef.

I don’t know what gets into my head. I make a mean roast beef. I’ll have it a second time. I’ll make sandwiches for days out of it. I might even make hash with gravy. But even a small roast is a lot for one guy. Eventually, I forget that I have it.

“Don’t you have a freezer?” you ask. You’d be right. Yes, I do. But mental lapses apply to frozen foods as well as the ones that live in the fridge. Let me preach on it.

I’m in the freezer to get ice cream. I move several frozen items out of my way to get to the ice cream. I have no idea what said items are but I’m sure I’m keeping them for some good reason. Eventually, the freezer gets so full I don’t have room for ice cream.

That’s when I make the decision to clear out my freezer. There’s something reddish in color in a freezer bag. Could be spaghetti sauce. Could be Sloopy Joe mix. I forgot to label it. There are also a dozen bags of brown meat. Maybe it used to be roast beef. Could be a simple hamburger. Maybe meatloaf. I’m sure it used to be good but now it’s hard as a rock and about as appealing as leftover broccoli.

One piece of advice I’ve gotten from some pretty good cooks is to make soup out of all the leftovers. Throw the broccoli and beans and rice and meatloaf and ribs and roast into the crockpot. Add a few spices and a fresh onion. Put a can of French Onion soup in there. Maybe a little garlic and salt.

Make some fresh cornbread and you have the perfect solution to leftovers.

Only one problem.

Deep in the back of my fridge is a yellow Tupperware bowl. I carefully open it. I can’t be certain . . .

But I’m pretty sure it’s leftover fuzzy soup.