WRITTEN BY STEVE JOHNSTON ILLUSTRATED BY PAUL SCHMID

I came to this conclusion the other day while looking through the refrigerator. As usual, it was obscenely stocked with food: four half-gallon milk cartons, a pitcher of orange juice, enough cold cuts to choke Dagwood, a couple bags of salads, leftover baked potatoes and a few dozen bottles of salad dressings, oils and toppings.

In other words, a fairly typical refrigerator.

OK, maybe fairly typical if you are feeding a family of six or so. Or if you are feeding a village in another part of the world. But as I looked through the refrigerator, thinking "this is waaaaay too much food to eat," I knew at the same time that this is waaaaay too much food to throw out.

There was a time when I took an overstocked refrigerator as a good sign. A constant flow of children swept through the kitchen. Some were members of the immediate Johnston family, and some were drifters the Johnston kids picked up in their travels. But after a couple of visits to our house, they all knew where the refrigerator was, and they all knew they could raid it.

We didn't have to worry about food going bad from being left out too long. If it didn't move fast enough, it was snatched and eaten.

But the habit of eating food that was meant for the children started when the kids were babies. What parent could feed a baby a jar of custard, have only a couple of spoonfuls left and not finish it off? There were times when I would be feeding a Johnston baby and secretly hope he didn't finish the whole jar so I could get a few bites of that rice custard.

Did anyone make custard that tasted as good as the stuff that comes in baby jars?

How about the crusts you sliced off the edges of the peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwiches you made for the kids? Did you throw the crust away or did you pop them into your drooling mouth, maybe with some extra peanut butter on top?

By the time the kids got to be teens, there were no leftovers to properly dispose of. These junior adults were stomachs on two legs. They could eat a full meal while complaining about dinner not being ready. Then they could sit down and finish off their dinner while eyeballing whatever was on your plate.

We shopped for food by quantity, not necessarily quality. A full refrigerator on Friday didn't mean it would still be full on Sunday. Like shrews, teenagers had to eat their own body weight every day or starve.

Now that the kids are grown and getting on with their lives, the Truly Unpleasant Mrs. Johnston and I still shop like we are feeding four teenagers. We still have two kids (they are technically adults now but we always call them "kids") living at home, but they don't eat all their meals here.

I can't say exactly where they are eating, but it isn't here. Still, they don't seem to be starving.

But I'll look in the bread box and see only one loaf there. I'll make a mental note to pick up a loaf next time I'm at the grocery store. When I'm at the store, I'll go on autopilot and pick up 10 pounds of potatoes, enough meat to build my own cow, a few loaves of bread and maybe a washtub of ice cream.

When the stuff doesn't get eaten, it goes bad. That makes me feel guilty. I think it is my duty to eat everything. That makes me gain weight. That makes me feel guilty.

As you can see, I am caught in a cycle. The only solution is to get a better memory and remember the kids are moving on, so I don't need to buy so much food. Or talk Mrs. Johnston into having a few more children.

I think I better work on the memory.