crumbs

Growing up, our house was very clean. So clean that if I dropped a sandwich on the floor, I wouldn't hesitate to then just use the floor as a plate (obviously mopping the floor afterwards). So clean that once, when my dad pulled out the oven to clean behind it, he found an M&M. He ate it. (Maybe this says more about Dad than the cleanliness kitchen?)

I see this as a good thing. I expect this.

It made college roommates a bit difficult to handle. It makes living with a boy (who could have easily gone for months without cleaning the floor of his "bachelor day's" studio apartment) a bit tricky, but we've gotten on a good cleaning routine. We clean this floor daily. When you live in 17 meters, that's not difficult to do.

One of the things I had to adjust myself to here were baguettes. Not the eating them part–I'm a master. If you're eating French bread, you have to come to terms with a fact: Bread crumbs are a part of your life. That's all there is to it. They will fall on the floor when you look at it.

When you walk into the apartment, flour will leave a trail from the door to the table. When you break of a chunk, you leave a small pile on your chair or place mat–even if you try carefully to cut the bread first or tear it over your plate. Bread crumbs gradually accumulate on your table over the course of a meal. Your sponge gets filled with them.

It's a fact. And it's worth it, because the bread is outstanding. I've come to terms with the sweeping, the smearing of crumbs across the table.

More impressive than this are the bends Joe and I are making on our living habits to accommodate the other person–like putting your clothes away when you're not wearing them or allowing a cup that looks dirty and empty to stay on the bookshelf so that you can use it again for the next cup of tea.

But this mold issue. This has got to go.

The man below us, who believes that our shower is somehow dripping into their apartment and causing a mildew spot (thank God we're renting and don't truly have to deal with this), came up to visit and evaluate the situation. We said we were also having a mold problem. We showed him our wall, cleverly (on the mold's part, not ours) hidden along the wall under the table and spreading upward.

No, he explained. This is not a water issue. It's the North side of the building. It's cold; we're on the end of the building. The moisture from the heater on the cold wall of the building gives the mold a perfect dwelling place. That's why it's worse in the bathroom.

His solution: open the window when the oven or heater are running. Every part of my soul is against that solution. He saw this response in my eyes, in the way my face fell. He shrugged as if to say, "It is what it is."

But this is not what it is. I am not living in symbiosis with this mold, though at the moment it is beating me. (Does sweeping it off with the broom do something to it that could be dangerous? I'm afraid this may be the case, but I can never resist the urge to give it a good brushing and at least stop the spread.) We are going to kill it.

This year, I'm resolving (more on resolutions to come–to make sure I haven't already broken them) to be more patient and easy going when it comes to factors that are out of my control. Like bread crumbs. They're annoying, but what are they hurting? In exchange for delicious ending to your meal, you have some extra sweeping to do. Lately, I shed like a golden retriever and would be sweeping anyway. Cool. However, this is one truly out-of-control situation that I can't come to grips with.

Cheers to a new year and a visit from your landlord to sort out all your problems. Have a drink for me.

Have you dealt with mold? Any advice or similar assaults you've experienced?

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