A Condiment Collector's Journey

There's a drawer in my kitchen that speaks to my deepest shame. It's not where I hide the cookies or stash the bills I don't want to pay. This brave new world holds its own DMZ, like the border between North and South Korea, and sometimes, the tension can be felt when the drawer is closed.

It's the condiment graveyard, parked right behind the silverware.

There are Chinese hot mustard, ketchup packets, soy sauce pouches, and every flavor of Taco Bell sauce, just in case. They evade the silverware behind their own makeshift barrier of a pair of oversized tongs face-to-face with a handheld knife sharpener, dividing the worlds of culinary salvation and the implements of food war.

A packet of Sushiya from HEB has infiltrated the border like a good Texan and is perched at the front of the drawer. I'd expect that for several reasons. And according to the fine print, it's about half as salty as the national brand.

It all starts innocently enough. One extra ketchup packet at McDonalds, a couple of soy sauces from takeout Chinese. Before you know it, you've got a Ziploc bag full of relics from meals long past. The Chinese soy sauces don't seem to get along much with the Sushiya. That might be why it jumped the border to begin with.

Momma always said not to throw out perfectly good food—even if that food is in a packet smaller than a postage stamp. But she had the same drawer, too. That may be where I learned it from. Why did she have Burger Chef ketchup packets? I wasn't even born when they went out of business!

When I was a kid, the closest McDonalds was over 20 miles away in Lawrenceville. Now, my hometown has at least six within a five-mile radius, seven if you count the Walmart. Excuse me, eight. There are two Walmarts.

I remember the birthday parties back in those days, replete with the clown and the assorted characters: the purple blob that wasn't Barney, the Hamburglar, and Mayor McCheese, likely the rarest honest politician in the business.

If you really wanted to be hoity-toity, you could bring the McDonalds ketchup packet to school the following Monday for instant street cred and a swift status upgrade. It was the functional equivalent of a Rolex and showed those other little bastards that you were a well-traveled child.

Unlike them. Losers.

Burger King was next door, and if you had that crown, you actually got to wear it for the school day to the chagrin and humiliation of your pauper, lower-class classmates. They got to be your serfs for eight hours whether they chose to be or not.

Long John Silver's? Forget it. Captain Jack Sparrow had nothing on you except for a hangover. They gave you an even better hat. And they had malt vinegar in their packets, which sowed confusion and discord while maintaining a rebellious spirit. Their mascots were less than impressive, but my father never met a fish fry he didn't like, except for that one time near the Atlanta airport that almost killed him.

At first, it's just a few extras tossed in the bag. You're being responsible, really. What if I need a single-serving ranch dressing in the middle of the apocalypse? You end up with Taco Bell hot sauces in one pile and Chick-fil-A Polynesian sauce in another. God rest the soul of S. Truett Cathy. You tell yourself it's for convenience, but deep down, you know it's madness.

Free condiments are a symbol of frugality. Grandpa used to say that a penny saved is a penny earned, even if it's a dime-sized packet of mustard. It starts with a drawer. Then it's a whole cabinet. Soon, you're one step away from being featured on a reality show.

Hoarding condiments has been known to connect people across cuisines and generations. My grandmother saved butter pats and jelly packets; I save Szechuan dipping sauce. We're basically the same.

At some point, you end up asking yourself, "Do condiments even expire? And if so, how do you tell on something that doesn't have a date but might glow in the dark?"

Craving wasabi mayo? Check the baggie labeled 'Sushi Accompaniments, 2017.' It's from the last time Donald Trump was President, and unlike many, has forgotten the half-decade or more in between.

Ran out of mayo? Not me. I've got three packets of Duke's hiding behind the mustard. It is the only time in our household that French's, Kraft, and Hellmann's can live in peace with one another in a condiment refugee camp. It's a political asylum for mayonnaise.

Some packets get fast-tracked like they had the dipping sauce CBP One app. Others remain in the drawer until they are eligible to draw Social Security.

"Why do you have 47 packets of Arby’s Horsey Sauce? Who eats this much Horsey Sauce?"

I do. I eat that much Horsey Sauce. I have my reasons. Don't judge me.

Besides, there is a thrill of having just the right sauce for every occasion. You know it as well as I do, and if the smaller restaurants in the area have their own packets, it's like a passport of fast food or a museum of past food events. The stranger the sauce, the more attention you get.

Chicken tender shops are the most famous for this wild thinking. You can get a sauce that sounds like it was designed by a toddler with a dart board of pictures. Something on the order of Little Hunter's Chocolate Jelly Ranch-O-Juice Delight. Nobody will ever eat it, and you can't justify why you even have it.

Yet still it resides, an escapee that crossed the border in the dead of night.

Hoarding condiments may not be the most glamorous habit, but it's a small way to stay prepared—and a big way to avoid buying a bottle of Sriracha for $7.

Take pride in your collection. It's time and dedication. Acknowledge that your little well-experienced collection represents optimism, resourcefulness, and maybe just a touch of neurosis. It's basically all the talents of a museum director.

So don't feel guilty the next time you reach for a hot sauce packet from the 'miscellaneous' bag. Just remember—it's not hoarding. It's condiment curation.