If Your Fridge Could Talk
Sometimes it gets really cold. Like below Mike the Mechanic’s recommended 37 degrees. On the days and too often nights when you forget to close my doors, I relish in the warmth my own light provides — whose battery is almost dead, by the way — until that abhorrent alarm system your bedmate Isaac installed signals for you to shut me up. When that happens, it once again becomes dark and frigid and I have only the smell of the overpriced Whole Foods pre-peeled and cloved garlic to keep me company – you really need to throw those out.
Things are normally quiet until around 11 pm when, over the continuos drone of The Real Housewives of Wherever, Isaac sneaks in for boatloads of butter and bagels. This usually happens on nights when you cook. He’ll swing in, mutter a few words, something or another about how that “quinoa coated tilapia couldn’t feed a bird,” or “when did spaghetti and meatballs become zucchini and seitan?” and “what the fuck is almond cheese?” On more occasions than one, he’s even cursed your curly kale dead while inside of me. Oh, and on the subject of kale, you didn’t forget you ate it and it didn’t mysteriously vanish.
While we’re talking, can I ask you something? Is everything okay — between you and Isaac, I mean. The reason I ask is because you guys haven’t gone out in a while. It’s been nearly 6 months since I’ve been shaken from my humdrum sleep to find you, intoxicated and ravished, raking me for something to eat. I must admit, I miss the excitement, the spontaneity of it all, don’t you? It now seems that your impromptu visits have been limited to the occasional 2 am catcall for apples and almond butter. Although I do enjoy the company that fridge-eating provides, I thought you should know that your feet are still visible, and everybody can see you.
Am I being harsh? I don’t mean to be. It’s just that there are so many milks and cheeses and bags of thrice-washed lettuce far past their expiration dates, and the anxiety of housing them all seems to be clouding my better judgement. In fact, the only thing that seems to be on a steady schedule of replenishment is the six pack of Stella and Grady’s cold brew coffee. Forgive me if I’m coming off as crass, but I’ve been silenced for so long and this has been extremely cathar — wait, hold on — I hear someth — oh! wonderful! I believe your freezer would like to have a word too.
What would your fridge say about you?
— Esther Levy
Illustration by Charlotte Fassler