Cake mix

My friend Liz is a professional organizer.

She works for a company that overhauls ratty old closets and cabinets, grouping things in clear plastic containers and ingenious storage devices I never knew existed. She arranges items – Legos, folders, shoes, boxes of cereal – in ROYGBIV order and labels everything with dainty placards so there’s never any doubt as to what belongs where.

When photographs of Liz’s work projects pop up in my Instagram feed, I literally cannot believe my eyes. She and her colleagues are miracle workers, taking something nasty – say, a filthy garage – and transforming it into a bright, clean space where, inexplicably, I find myself longing to sit and drink a cup of tea.

I’m not even kidding.

If you walked into my house, it wouldn’t immediately be apparent that Liz and I are opposites on the organizational spectrum: this is because I like my rooms tidy and clutter-free. But the reason my rooms are tidy and clutter-free is because I shove everything into my closets. They are my veritable dumping ground. They are my dirty little secret.

A couple years ago I asked Liz about hiring her to help me with my kitchen pantry. But (ahem) I wasn’t organized enough to follow through and actually book her. So it continues to languish, characterized by expired jars of pickles and a distressing amount of cream of mushroom soup. I’ve gotten good at overlooking the chaos. After all, we have to let some things go.

(Right?)

But recently, something alarming occurred in my kitchen pantry that’s caused me to question my approach.

One afternoon, I was looking in vain for almonds, riffling through various tins and packages on the upper shelf. I am short and the upper shelf is tall, which made my search trickier. “A stepstool is always handy in situations like this,” I chided myself, but it was too late. Having shoved a can of diced tomatoes too far to the side, I inadvertently created a domino effect, sending a box of cake mix tumbling off the shelf and onto my face.

An item falling from the pantry onto my body is not surprising; it’s happened more times than I care to count. I was far more distressed by the fact that the box of cake mix was open. The sweet-smelling powder dusted my hair and chest and feet like snow.  

My kids, who were sitting at the kitchen table doing their homework, thought this was funny. And it was. I am quick to laugh at myself when the situation warrants, but something wasn’t adding up. 

"You guys, why was this box of cake mix open?” I asked. “I mean, don’t you use a box of cake mix all at once? Why would we have leftover cake mix in the pantry?” Genuinely puzzled, I was posing my questions rhetorically, but I noticed that my 11-year-old son was avoiding eye contact.

“Owen,” I said, “Why was this box of cake mix open?”

He didn’t answer. He appeared to be weighing his options.

“Just tell me the truth. It’s not a big deal,” I said.

Only, it was sort of a bigger deal than I anticipated, because Owen admitted that he had been eating the cake mix.

“Hold on a second,” I said. “You’re telling me that you opened the box of cake mix and have been eating it?”

He nodded.

“How have you been eating it?”

“With a spoon,” he answered. As if this should be obvious.  

“So, you’ve been nipping into the cake mix every now and then, whenever you fancy a hit of Betty Crocker?”

He nodded again.

“Why?”  

“I like sugar,” he said, shrugging his shoulders.  

“I see,” I said. I didn’t really see – not at all – but I wasn’t sure where to go from here. How does a good mom resolve a situation like this? I enlisted his help in cleaning up the cake mix, but I had no idea how to address the problem long-term.  

“Buddy, please don’t eat cake mix anymore,” I finally beseeched. “It’s not good for you, and it’s weird.”

“OK,” he said, shrugging his shoulders again.

“It also indicates that you have a major sugar addiction,” I added. “And it makes me feel like a bad mom. I am terrible at keeping this pantry clean. I didn’t even notice you had opened the box of cake mix. Why don’t I organize more? Why don’t I bake more? If I organized or baked more, this wouldn't have happened…”

“I get the idea, Mom,” he said. 

As I dusted the cake mix from my body and Owen swept it off the floor, I resolved to make a change. I would call Liz, and I would ask for her help.

But I am realistic, if nothing else. Liz might be awesome at helping me get organized, but she certainly isn’t trained in preventing 11-year-old boys from making ludicrous dietary choices.

Can someone please find me a consultant for that?