There it was: a thick, green, gelatinous creature, growing out of a glass of Bolthouse Vedge that had somehow gotten left behind. My enemy had returned. Mold had overtaken the glass, turning the tomato juice into the Creature from the Black Lagoon. One clump seemed to grow faster than the others; it had snaked up the sides of the glass, toward the rim, freedom, and eventual conquest of the world. A quick visit outside confirmed the worst – my landlord had disabled the hose. I would have to deal with the growth myself. Indoors. In the sink. Possibly touching it.
Three hefty squirts of Method dish soap didn't dislodge it. So I went for the plastic fork – I just couldn't touch the stuff with a fork I might actually eat with. With timid jabs, I poked at the mold with my meager weapon. I poked and I poked, and finally, the creature slid out of the glass, in one smooth, knowing, liquid movement. It crouched at the bottom of my drain in defiance.
This was not the first time we had done battle.
As a food-loving girl who would rather lounge around reading than cleaning, I've been destined since an early age to combat the evil blues, greens and whites. Our encounters have been frequent, but only a few battles have been truly historic. Like the time the mold won.
I was too young to know any better: 10, maybe 13. I had a Saturday morning habit of pouring myself a mug of cereal and milk and carrying it into the family room to watch the cartoon X-Men. I remember the mug well: a tall, terra cotta orange plastic cup I was relegated to, due to my habit of breaking glass. (Which, by the way, continues today.) The cereal, I think, was Honey Bunches of Oats, and the milk was two percent. Little did I know, but the elements were perfect for the growth of mine enemy: mold.
Somehow, the mug got lost in my room. I found it a few months later; still defiant that, no, my room did NOT smell, Mom. I wasn't sure what to do with it. The milk had long evaporated, and the clumps of cereal had been lost to the ages. All that was left was the mold: thick, white and the size of the mug.
In a panic, I did what was most reasonable: I stood on a chair and placed the mug on top of my bookcase. There. It was over.
Except that it wasn't. The mold didn't die, or give up, or get bored and move to Reno with the Beach Ken doll that also resided on the bookcase. No, the mold continued to grow.
There it stayed. I was afraid to say anything. I didn't want to get in trouble. Finally, six months later, on a day when the rest of my family was out of the house, I grabbed the mug and carried it outside. In the front yard, there was a giant tree whose branches dipped down to meet an ugly hedge that was never quite trimmed. There, in the fold of the trees, I hid the mug, where as far as I know it still lives. The mold had won – but it would not be the last time we would spar.
Over 10 years later, the mold made another attack in that long-forgotten glass of tomato juice. I had gained maturity, my own apartment and soap. But was I prepared? I poured more Method, which splashed into the sink in lovely pink grapefruit swirls. "Mwah-ha-ha!" the mold must have thought to itself. "I defy your puny attempts to vanquish me!"
But the mold, in its arrogance, didn't notice one crucial fact. It was blocking the drain – and all the soap and water I was throwing at it were filling the sink with bubbles: lovely, grapefruit-scented bubbles that I just wasn't afraid of. Tiny bubbles … that I could stab! "Ah-ha!" I yelled, picking up a knife that had been waiting on the sidelines. "I am not afraid of you!" I aimed for the drain and felt the knife slicing through the creature's slimy body. Again and again, I stabbed into the abyss, while water from the faucet poured into the sink, a covert accomplice in my crime. Finally, the water subsided. The drain was clear. All that was left were a few tiny wisps of foam from the soap. My challenger was gone, but I knew it would not be long before he made his return.
Until we meet again, worthy adversary. Until we meet again.
This article appears in Feb 9-15, 2005.