Have you ever thought why parents grumble about their kids’ messy rooms, why wives nag at their husbands about their dirty socks lying around like dead rats on the floor, and why sometimes we can’t help it but frown upon someone’s oily hair, but we never, ever think of the messy, deformed, poked, sliced, and diced, full of crumbs, traces of jam, cheese, or garlic – butter? In my case, my son dips his fingers in it every time he sees the open tub. It’s possible that our cat has licked it a few times, too.

Go to your fridge and check it out! No, not the unopened packet/tub. The one that’s been used for several days/weeks – that one. Just examine it well. There must be at least one breadcrumb in there!

The butter is one of the messiest things there are in your house. Not even your toilet looks as bad – I mean, after you’ve flashed.

What’s with the mess we leave in the butter? The breadcrumbs, the highways of jam or peanut butter from last week’s pancake breakfast? Is that where the truth about us lie? In the butter?

It just feels that we sometimes focus on covering up (figuratively and metaphorically speaking) the big stuff and missing to tidy up (or keep clean) the little stuff. Like making our beds but never straightening the fitted and the flat sheets – as long as the quilt is straightened and tidy on top. Not only that, but we’re quick to jump on judging others without even considering our own “messy butter” lying in the deep, dark drawer of the fridge.

This definitely calls for a theory. The butter theory!

You can apply it to everything. Take relationships. After long years of partnership celebrating our love becomes from three times a day to once a week to once on birthdays or around Christmas. Although, men tend to lose interest after they’ve overloaded on foreplay with the turkey breast all evening. What was I talking about? Yes, so you have the relationship, it’s all there but messy things keep piling up and you just keep closing them back in the deepest, darkest of places in the cold fridge and you rarely resolve anything. The butter, like marriage, tends to last for a while but then you get fed up, all you’ve got is a bucket full of everything else but butter – messy reminiscence of nice romantic breakfasts – and you just get a divorce. You go to the store and look for, more of the same but new, bucket of butter.

This all sounds a bit daft, but even a story about butter should have a purpose, no?

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