Yesterday, I spent the morning making homemade spaghetti sauce.  I watch myself open the cans of tomato paste and empty them into the kettle.  I scrape the paste out of the cans with a spatula.  I measure exactly one cup of water into one of the cans.  I pour the water from can to can and then into the kettle.  I repeat this process until the inside of the tomato paste can sparkles like new.

I spray the cooked ground beef in the colander with hot water to remove every last shred of visible fat.  I carefully scrape the colander.  I don't want to miss one morsel of ground beef.  I set the water and beef fat aside to separate.

I puree frozen broccoli, cauliflower and a carrot and add it to the sauce.  Then I repeat the water ritual with the blender container.

Where did I get this ritual?  Why this compulsion to get every last tad of product out of the container?

I have a similar compulsion to rinse out ketchup bottles, pour the last crumbs out of the cereal box, and empty the last drop of milk from the carton.  I scrape the last remnants of butter out of the butter dish.  I strain used cooking oil.  I freeze bacon and beef grease.  I have frozen chicken necks that have been in my freezer since 1989.

When I dry my hands with a paper towel, I hang it to dry so I can use it again.  I feel so pleased to get three uses out of a paper towel.  I refuse to buy plastic garbage sacks.  Instead I use the flimsy bags from the grocery store, even though I must deal with leaks and breaks.  If I happen to use a *purchased* plastic bag, I empty it at the dumpster so I can bring it home and use it again.

I save used aluminum foil, plastic bakery containers, cottage cheese cartons, empty milk jugs, mayonnaise jars, and any other packaging that might come in handy for another purpose.  I search through the trash to make sure no one else has thrown any of these valuables away.

I sweat if I see a soda can in the garbage.  I relax as I retrieve it, smash it flat, and deposit it in the plastic grocery sack for aluminum recycling.

I collect stacks of old newspapers and magazines.  If printed material arrives in my house, I feel an obligation to read it.  I save it until I get the time.

My box collection is renown.  I have every box that has ever arrived in my house with a new purchase.  I have computer boxes for computers I no longer own.  I have stacks of cardboard cartons that cases of soda come in.  It's a sacrilege to throw away a metal tin.  If a box has a lid, it deserves a place of special honor in my collection.  I also save all the packaging material, just in case.

In case of what?

My insides tell me that the world will come to an end if one molecule of food washes down the drain or a useful item is thrown away.  My purpose on this earth is to eat, wear, or use up everything I touch or come in contact with.  Panic overwhelms me when I ignore these rules.

My mother isn't like this.  My father is not extreme.  My husband doesn't understand my compulsions but he tolerates them.  My children are just the opposite.  Because of my propensity to save stuff, they have the opposite compulsion - to throw everything away.

Where did I learn that not wasting is so vital for my survival?  I reflect back on the time I spent with my grandmother.  When I was little, we lived with her for several months while my Dad was overseas.  We spent most of our vacations visiting her.  I remember looking forward to time with Grammaw.

Grammaw raised nine children.  Her first son was born two years before the Great Depression.  She had more children than this.  Some died as infants.  She had a husband that sometimes didn't bring in enough money and food to take care of this large family.  They were poor.

Grammaw had a strong personality.  No chicken, dog or child dared contradict one of her commands.

Grammaw worked constantly.  The only time I remember her sitting down was to have her picture taken.  No, I take that back, Grampaw is sitting in that picture.

Grammaw saved everything.  She saved every glass jar, plastic container, and empty box.  She used them over and over.  She canned in mayonnaise jars to save the money of buying new ones.  If one broke during canning, she carefully retrieved the green beans and we had them for supper.

One of my fondest memories of Grammaw was her pies.  She made her own crust and she would give me the trimmings to eat.  I loved eating the raw dough.  Sometimes she would take the trimmings, sprinkle the dough with cinnamon and sugar and bake it in the oven.  The delicious aroma filled the air, and the flaky sweet pastry that came out was better than any specialty bakery.

Grammaw made every morsel count.  One day she promised to make me some cinnamon crust.  I pop into the kitchen expecting my treat and she breaks the news to me,

"No, Pammie, I didn't make any cinnamon crust because there was enough dough to make another pie."

I was crushed.  This disappointment happened over 40 years ago, and I remember it like it was yesterday.

Maybe that's it.  If I'm really good, maybe next time, I'll get the reward.  Do I feel like I would dishonor her memory if I threw something away?