Fridge

non fiction..........

I lug myself into the kitchen with my farmers market haul - on one arm, a reusable bag full of produce that is cutting off my circulation. On the other, a plastic bag carrying an egg carton, that crushes a half eaten chocolate croissant. I am the Modern American Woman.

I heave the bags onto my “island” and start unpacking like I’m in a Nancy Meyers movie- cue “This Will Be” by Natalie Cole. Positioning ripe stone fruit in a shallow ceramic bowl (will rot there), tossing leafy greens into my strainer (will also rot there), twirling through the narrow half of my kitchen to a cutting board, to slice the loaf of rustic sourdough I waited twenty minutes in line for (unfortunately, worth it).

Once everything is chopped, peeled, stored, wet with residual water I’m too lazy to fully pat dry: it goes into the fridge. I am now required, by the law of attraction, to make room for the new items. This I have no problem with. I am not a hoarder. My mother raised me to throw things away before their time - “you can always get a new one” she’d say, as she threw, literally, reusable water bottles into the trash. Sure, it’s technically wasteful but the sooner you hold tightly to something, insist you’ll use it before it’s unusable, it’s usually a setup for failure.

Because at the end of the day, we are who we are. And a hummus with a looming expiry date is not going to change that.

So I basically throw my arm into the fridge and scoop out all the little plastic containers, tins, foil wrapped butters that barely have a life left - and toss them with ease. Only the condiments remain, keeping a watchful eye, like army guards from their watchtower (the side panels of the fridge).

Satisfied with the room I’ve made, I triumphantly slam the fridge door. With the force, I knock a photo of Tyler and I from some movie premiere onto the floor. As I go to place it back, I see that underneath is a photo that I had forgotten about, and it hits me where it hurts. Like a new coat of paint, I had tried to cover up what I had once proudly displayed. Because while I can get rid of things, memories not so much. The inside of my fridge may be empty, but the outside….

On the outside of my fridge you will find the manifestation of chaos: photos of my family, a coffee stained recipe for my grandmother’s passover brisket (the coffee stains are mine, sorry gramma!), a greeting card that has Dorinda from RHONY on it saying “clip!” (I think I bought this as a birthday card for Chris but I liked it so much I kept it). A ticket to the SZA concert Anisha took me to. The first $10 I made doing standup at a bar show. Everything is lazily tacked on, some things a little too heavy for the translucent magnets holding them up. It’s a jungle of life moments that mean something to me. Bloated and shapeless, but peeking out, just barely - are the things I’ve tried to bury and cannot bring myself to toss.

Okay fine. I am a hoarder. For nostalgia. Is that allowed?? Your honor may I be a little nostalgic for once?? I would like to be in love with everyone I’ve ever loved forever. Is that such a crime?? Then lock me up with all of my exes and throw away the key! I’ll find a way to keep us all busy!

Nostalgia is my drug of choice. I don’t think I’ll ever get clean from it. I’m nostalgic for moments I’ve never even experienced. I feel nostalgic when I watch sports montages before a game starts! Don’t get me started on Bat Mitzvah montages! On a long flight, instead of putting on Bridesmaids for the zillionth time I’ll put on a long, sad album and scroll through old photos. It’s emotional cutting, but the release is euphoric - especially since the air mid-flight is so thin. If nostalgia could kill, I’d be dead.

Because who am I if not the girl who loved all of those people? Lived all those big moments? Does each new experience nullify the last? How could I feel something so strongly and then suddenly… not? Impossible! But I know if I kept those big feelings inside of me all the time, I might explode. So I hold nostalgia in places outside of my heart, stuck onto my fridge under receipts and punchcards for a free bottle of wine at Nico’s. Under the expected, I hide it in plain sight. The little love notes from hasty mornings before work. Topless film photos with a friend who I don’t speak to anymore, smudged from being grabbed too fast. The penny I found the morning I asked for a sign that everything was going to be okay. I don’t see these reminders everyday, but I know they’re there if I need it.

Reading this, you might think this entry will end with me purging my fridge once and for all. “Through the power of pen to paper I’ve found the strength to rid myself of my nostalgia addiction!!! With an old, withered carrot also goes the receipt for the Joni Mitchell concert she got me for my 27th!”

Unfortunately, that is not the case. The inside of my fridge is spotless, odorless, meticulously organized. Full of fresh new produce, shining with newness, the potential of being enjoyed. The outside is the same as it was yesterday, and the day before that: cluttered, colorful, meaningful, everything overlapping, fighting for it’s moment in my line of vision. Nothing will be taken off, only added to. Until something horrible happens and my fridge is lit on fire or something. But know it will not be by my own hand.

Still I continue to swear I’ll clean it all off one day. As I said before, through a shaky hummus similie, we are who we are. So know that I probably won’t. But still, come over for breakfast on Sunday morning and I’ll make you something that I got from the farmers market. Something so delicious you’ll forget to notice that my fridge is full of memories I cannot seem to let go of.