Lifelessly preserved in the thick salty residue of the past night’s canola oil; stiff and dry in the plughole of the kitchen sink, among bean, onion, pepper, and tomato; and bucking hopelessly like a tethered dog in heat, stuck to the morning’s soy milk, flies have taken to my kitchenware.
They’ve been here since I moved in last June and at worst provide a nominal entertainment, smacking the ceiling in painfully concentrated thuds and thwaps. There are only a handful at a time, and compared with the hidden army of ants (nothing ingenuity and persistence can’t fix) and the colony of fruitflies (yeah, I know, take the garbage out), they’re no big problem. Houseflies have been my least cumbersome pest.
So much that I’ve developed a fondness for the buggers. This side of the first freeze, they’re looking wherever they can for food. They’re hungry. And in the the past weeks they’ve discovered my sloppy housekeeping is most evident in the kitchen.
Their taste for old food is their demise — sticky and sweet, my refuse is a spiderweb. There is no escape but that final one.
Some might consider them a delicacy, chocolate-covered and the like. Housefly doesn’t jive with my diet or suit my taste. Though interested parties who send a self-addressed stamped envelope and a Ziploc bag will find a crunchy marinade in their mailbox. It may be the perfect after-work snack.