I admit it–I went a little crazy. Yesterday, after stumbling upon the New York Times’ article about hidden bacteria in the kitchen, I got massively freaked out. My fridge hasn’t been deep cleaned since the Pleistocene era, so, after reading about the E. Coli known to be hanging out in vegetable drawers (not to mention on blender gaskets, spatulas, and everything else one never thought to suspect), I decided that today was the day to make things right. Mike, after all, was home. He had no major plans. He had, in fact, declared that he wanted to watch MJ–that I should take some time for myself.

So I did.

Two hours, six rags, two sponges, forty-odd paper towel sheets, one cup of boiling water, and three kinds of cleaning agents later, I had the fridge I wanted. The one that you could eat off of, if dining off of frosted glass shelves was your thing. The one respectable families seem to have all the time. The one that, at the very least, isn’t going to kill my three-year-old daughter when she accidentally, say, brushes her mouth on it on the way to feeding the dog. Or whatever.

So here it is, in all of its anti-bacterial glory. Notice the fine details: the immaculate butter compartment, the lack of encrusted maple syrup on the walls, the newly scoured hot sauce bottles (for another day: do we really need twelve different kinds?), the pristine exterior, finally denuded of all food-specked pictures, ineffective magnets, and outdated postcards.

I’m so proud. I’m so pleased. I’m so sorry it won’t last. Still, for the five minutes it does, I’ll enjoy it more than a little.

Tomorrow? The blender.