Every dish of left-overs tells a story of heart break or triumph.

The fridge is a time capsule to my life. Every dish of left-overs tells a story of heart break or triumph. The kielbasa and peppers stand as a sad memorial to the late arrival of my wife from work. The ravioli and meatballs staining my old Tupperware boldly state we are here to stay. An unopened container of ricotta cheese, a harsh reminder that I never made the stuffed shells I promised I would.
Some items in my fridge are merely tourists. The milk is visiting, but can only stay a week. Other residents of the fridge are more permanent. The deli mustard has settled in, and likely won’t be going anywhere soon. The juice jug has dug in and will only budge for refills. The eggs wait in rows like convicts, just killing time until they crack.
The pizza box feels important because it takes up a lot of space, but the truth is; there are only two slices in the box. The butter suffers from a bit of an inferiority complex when it is made to sit next to the large container of margarine but size isn’t everything.
Some people say that the eyes are the gate way to the soul, but I know better. The only way to truly know someone is to sneak a peek into their refrigerator.


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