Memo

Well, pantry moths, it's been a long winter and spring for us.

Since Christmas, you've been appearing in my kitchen almost every afternoon, rubbing your tiny feet together, distressing friends and lady friends alike, pasting your hideous young along the edges of my ceiling, scumming the walls with your smeared guts.

I've come to understand that this is how things have always been for you.

We like the same foods, you and I. We both enjoy croutons, walnuts, unbleached flour, powdered sugar and the spices of India. And though I have, during our acquaintance, regularly supplied our household with all these things -- at the value, in my world, of many hours of labor -- I observe that you have not.

This is why I'm writing, pantry moths.

Effective immediately, I'm changing the terms of our partnership. You haven't yet interfered with my enjoyment of the cupboard we share, and I see no reason why you will in the time that we have remaining. But I will no longer restock our mutual supply of dry goods. And though your nutritional requirements are minimal, they are real. Starting today, every meal either one of us consumes brings us closer to a final reckoning.

And I will survive, pantry moths. For I am larger than you, and far crueler.

I don't relish the weeks and months to come. But nor, in truth, have I enjoyed our time together. And so I will not mourn the departure, one by one, of each of your skinny, black little asses.