I think I’m winning. For now.
It all started with an event so ordinary as to be unremarkable: a couple of fruit flies (or their larva) came in with some purchase or other. After I spotted them, I was very careful about keeping the kitchen free of any food hanging about, and thought they’d go away, as they always had before.
Wrong. Wrong, wrong, wrong.
Drosophila—as I recall their more formal name from science class, where their reproductive/genetic life was looked at in some depth—can be tenacious if given half a chance. The problem—I discovered after the proliferation had already occurred—was that a visiting friend had thrown some fruit in a garbage can I don’t usually check because I don’t usually use it. It was there that the fruit flies had lain in wait, swelling their ranks to become an almost overwhelming force.
Yesterday was D-day for my counterattack—which was quite literally a counter attack. My weaponry consisted of a huge vat of apple cider vinegar and some Saran wrap. Put the vinegar (with a teensy bit of sugar) into some bowls, cover with the wrap and seal tightly with rubber bands, poking holes in the wrap with toothpicks. The little guys can get in but can’t get out.
Actually, some of them can get out, because I’ve watched a few of them do so and live to fight another day. But most of them can’t, and they ultimately die in the vinegar soup. Or perhaps they die and then fall into the vinegar. It all takes quite some time, and my efforts to help them along by coaxing them into the vinegar prematurely don’t seem to have borne—ahem—much fruit.
C’est la guerre.
Despite what some will tell you, red wine doesn’t work nearly as well. Nor do traps bought in the hardware store (I spent about ten bucks on one) or cone-shaped entryways to the vinegar death trap. Take it from me, I know whereof I speak; I’ve got quite the experiment going, with a good hefty n.