If Fridges Could Speak…
Article by Katie Patterson Art by Riley Diehl
Fridges lie on the periphery of your experience. Squeezed into corners, doors opening awkwardly, always emitting a gentle buzz (a buzz so soft you forget it’s there). They’re on the periphery, that is, until you reach into their depths, pulling out a half-eaten curry or the yogurt you forgot, chomping down on the nutrients that sustain life. “You Are What You Eat—” the Building Three Coffee shop attendee’s shirt said, “—So Eat Deliciously.” If we are what we eat, do fridges eat who we are? Or, at the very least, is it a fridge’s periphery status that makes it the perfect place to preserve someone’s identity?
Sometimes, after a run in Atlanta’s hot and humid summer mornings, I’d rush back into Mog and Grandad’s to be greeted by the instant refreshment of their air-conditioned house. It always had dimmed lights, wooden floorboards cooled by the dark blue humming AC, and elegant pottery pieces sitting around patiently, picking up dust. Sweating, the thick and stuffy outside air still stuck to my skin and prickling down my throat, I’d have the urge (and often urge-induced action) to open their fridge door, letting that icy coldness flow over and into me, calming my brain.
Grandad passed away in 2017. I know Mog’s fridge better than I know or remember the Mog-Grandad fridge. Mog’s fridge is always stocked with milk — half-and-half or whole milk — her favorites. As I’ve grown up, she’s often drunk milk with dinner (which used to seem foreign and charming to me). The last time I looked into her fridge, it seemed practically empty — a few condiments, the staple milk-gallons, some homemade sweet iced tea, one or two restaurant leftovers, and a half-eaten banana (that’s another thing: one of her go-to meals is a mug of milk, half a banana, and some almonds).
Mog recently gave me her old car, and it still smells like her. Baby powder, lily flowers, cool lake, tinge of sourness, smoky cardamom. Indescribable, as many scents are. Kyle and I had a routine of waking Mog up in the mornings when we’d visit; waiting till the microwave clock turned eight, we’d tiptoe to her door, open it slowly and quietly, crouch down on the carpet, before pouncing up on either side of her bed, and enveloping her in a giant joint wake-up hug! One morning, we sprayed a small glass jar around the room — a gentle mist of lavender landed on everything. The delicate fall of lavender particles holds the same weight as the group doze which inevitably followed our wake-up scheme… the same weight as Mog’s kisses landing on my cheek.
Grandad had this twinkle in his eye, and this habit of bouncing his front teeth together under his lips — a habit Mama picked up. When we visited, Grandad always made us grapenuts heaped with hand-cut strawberries, blueberries, and bananas. He would hand it to us in the morning, a quiet offering, along with the newspaper cut-outs he’d leave for my parents. These memories are woven into me, into the quilt of my being. Moments retrieved from the back of the fridge.
I presume that, at the very least, the Mog-Grandad fridge contained berries. Some sort of grilled or barbecued meat, too. Corn on the cob! I know that Grandad watched a lot of cooking shows, and food was something he loved. At Christmas each year, my parents would gift him the newest edition of “America’s Test Kitchen.” He’d keep these books in his “den,” or office: a dark room, with a leather couch, blue light from the news always glowing, neatly-stacked newspaper clips, hundreds of books, a collection of records. It made me nervous, but I’d always be the one to hold my breath, walk down the hall to his den, and tell him dinner was ready.
I was scared of going in there, in the same way I was scared of talking to him for extended periods of time. There were a few times we did speak. Like in the Magritte museum lobby, waiting for Mama to park the car, he told me of Mama’s strength — how she ran at the head of the marathon despite arriving late to the race. Or, the time we sat around the garden table, his feet up on the edge, telling me family stories and legacies. While I always floated away from those talks filled with warmth, there was something about those still, deeper, long-winded conversations that my nine-year-old self skirted away from.
Maybe, like many, my grandfather is someone I wish I’d sat with longer, asked more questions to. Regardless, his kindness still lies in Mama’s eyes, in Mog’s stories, in the way even I sometimes bounce my front teeth.
My immediate family’s fridge is quite a different species from Mog’s, or even Mog-Grandad’s. Full to the brim with half-eaten, once-delicious, forgotten items. We (meaning one of my parents (meaning, probably Mama)) clean it out once every… three to four months? But in the meantime, leftovers are packed in there on a near-daily basis. During the tri-yearly fridge-cleaning endeavor, it is not unusual to find the moldy tops of forgotten chilli, half-used bouillon, or apple cranberry jam. My family has had many fridges. We’ve moved around a lot. For a while, our fridge contained my dad’s collection of kombucha bottles (bits of scoby and raspberries floating around in sunset-colored liquid). Now, it is always stocked with two separate egg cartons — one with raw eggs, the other with boiled (Kyle and Mama are currently into consuming as much protein as possible). My current favorite, though, is looking into the fridge and finding the repercussions of Papa’s new key-lime pie recipe staring back at me. So tart!
The sustenance of berries… the smell of sour kombucha mixing with the earthiness of eggs… the people I love. These ingredients stirred meticulously into large bowls, full to the brim with hundreds of smells, tastes, memories, people.