If there was a church that held confessions for lapsed housewives, I am sure the Mother Confessor must have heard my admissions of neglect of the refrigerator. I would be one of those women who slink into the church, covered head to toe so no one could identify me and squeeze into a polished confessional that smelled of Pledge and utter “Bless me Martha, for I have sinned…” and launch into a listing of the number of moldy containers in my fridge: the rancid milk left in a carton at least three months old, tomatoes in the crisper which could be used to develop penicillin for a small town’s citizens and miscellaneous mystery packages of food no longer identifiable due to their advanced state of decay. Martha would then ask if I had thrown out the quarter package of rancid hamburger I mentioned last time I was here confessing to sins against sanitary house-keeping, and, unfortunately for me the answer would have to be “no”. My penance this time might be to give the fridge a thorough scouring, without rubber gloves, using bleach and hot water, then again afterward with a solution of Mr Clean. I should end up with a clear conscience, a sparkling fridge and rough, pruny hands.