Once in Georgia, I was thankful to have the sealed containers to keep out the cockroaches that frequented our kitchen. Three inches, fat, dark brown with wriggling antennas used to find their way, they showed up everywhere despite our best efforts to eradicate them. At first, I'd run into another room and hope they'd just find a hole to crawl into somewhere. Then we bought a Swiffer that we used solely for killing bugs. I'd reach it out as far as I could hold the green handle steady and slam it down. I'd leave the dead roach under the cloth top for my husband to clean when he came home from work. As with anything that becomes habitual, I grew accustomed to the killing and looked forward to seeing them sprint up the walls so I could reach for the Swiffer and charge like a cartoon character breaking down a castle door. Their bodies would explode leaving behind spots of dark brown with a distinct acrid stench. I became skilled at catching their filmy wings on the spindles of the Swiffer pad. The carcass would dangle from the corner as I lifted it toward the trash barrel. Sometimes a leg would get left behind.
For Christmas our first year in Georgia, my mother-in-law bought us a set of canisters patterned with raised white lattice and bubbly purple grapes. Just before she sent them my husband and I had had a conversation about how the Irish wear their heritage in the form of shamrocks and leprechauns, but the Italians didn't have a defining symbol. He suggested meatballs or grapes. I always wondered if they conspired together to send the grape adorned canisters as a slight to my ethnicity. Regardless, they looked much better than the plastic containers lining our counter space. I held onto these thinking I'd find a second use for them. They even made the move back to Massachusetts and got shoved into the back of a cabinet in my kitchen. It's been about five years since I've used them; I think it's safe to say the only way they will be repurposed is in someone else's home.
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