Confessions of a Food Hoarder

I’m just going to say it: I am a food hoarder. My kitchen isn’t a Level Five Hoard; I don’t keep expired or gross items, and everything is spic, span, and organized—but I still know I have a problem. My pantry is brimming over, and the freezer has run out of real estate. I am a food hoarder.

I’ve been the butt of my friend’s jokes for years. Something about my standing slack-jawed in front of an open pantry or fridge seems to inspire laughter from others—but for me, it’s solitude. I’m serious. When I am stressed or things get REAL, I walk in the kitchen and crack the fridge door. I bask in the glow of the refrigerator’s soft light, admiring the contents within; all is right and good in the world. I have food. Everything is going to be okay.

I don’t need therapy to get to the root of my issue. I’ve seen more than enough episodes of Hoarders and Hoarding: Buried Alive to know my problem (as everyone’s, really) stems from childhood. There were times when money was tight and the family cupboard was as empty as our bank account. We weren’t entirely food insecure, but we had our share of “beans and rice” nights. In fact, I was 21 years old before I realized that a packet of ramen was only meant to serve one—not watered down and split between four hungry kids.

I’m not hating on my parents here or trying to make my formative years sound like something out of a Dickens novel. Mom and Dad did what they could do make ends meet. They loved me and took care of me, and my childhood was awesome. We simply had more hard times than most.

My hoarder tendencies emerged when I moved out on my own. To this day, it is an impossible feat for me to get in and out of the grocery store without spending less than $50. I feel this compulsion to buy things, to stock up and keep on stocking. Example: I have five boxes of Triscuits in my pantry and seven boxes of Hamburger Helper in my pantry right now. Triscuits taste like wheat flavored steel wool, and I don’t even LIKE Hamburger Helper. Exhibit B: Getting something in and out of my freezer is a veritable IQ test—it’s an intricate puzzle that only I can arrange, because the boxes and bags are wedged so close together that there is less than six square inches of available space for new items.

And yet, I keep buying. I keep staring at the pantry and the fridge, comforted at the sight of boxes, bags, cans, and canisters. Nothing can permeate my solitude—nothing that is, until I reach for a snack and am bombarded by an avalanche of macaroni noodles and rice. Maybe I should check in to that A&E casting call…