在我们的系列中Writers’ Fridges, we bring you snapshots of the abyss that writers stare into most frequently: their refrigerators.
I just realized, having never before had an occasion to consider my thoughts on the matter, that I feel incredibly fond of the front of my fridge. Life should be more like the front of my fridge: entirely made up of postcards from your friends, pictures of babies, an upside-down magazine photo of a rocket launch from a seventies aviation magazine, old aura readings, photos of when you blacked out at a Pistons game watching Fat Joe (no longer fat) play at halftime, novelty magnets that remind you of everywhere you’ve been that you love. The best thing on this fridge is a magnetic sheet featuring four incredible photos of my friend Jackson—it was a Christmas present from Jackson’s partner, Kate. Mostly when I go to the fridge, though, the only thing that registers for me visually is a glimpse of my dog Luna’s fluffy puppy face.
Inside, my fridge’s vibe is almost always “last night’s dinner plus snacks.” If I lived almost anywhere else, I’d probably be working less and cooking constantly, and my fridge would always be bursting with some Martha Stewart shit, pizza dough and herbs and iced green tea with honey, as it was in Texas and Michigan. But here it’s like, we got some eggs, we got that bodega Vermont cheddar, we got Simply Orange so I can choke down my vitamins in the morning, we got limes that have turned into moldy rocks since the party.