September 3, 2019 Writers’ Fridges Writers’ Fridges: Etgar Keret By Etgar Keret In our series Writers’ Fridges, we bring you snapshots of the abyss that writers stare into most frequently: their refrigerators. Nearly thirty years ago, when I moved out of my parents’ place, it took me no more than a week to feel at home at my new, tiny, rented apartment. The bed was comfortable, the shower water warm and friendly, and the ripped beanbag on the little balcony was just perfect for napping. The only thing that felt a little distant and cold was the fridge. My mom, who was the best cook ever, had been very protective of her kitchen and barely let my siblings or me enter it. This had made me develop a polite relationship with my parents’ fridge, formed on a strict need-a-beer basis. But my rented apartment’s old fridge wasn’t as nice as my parents’ and it took me only a few attempts to realize that it didn’t have any beers inside. Read More
August 12, 2019 Writers’ Fridges Writers’ Fridges: Téa Obreht By Téa Obreht In our series Writers’ Fridges, we bring you snapshots of the abyss that writers stare into most frequently: their refrigerators. Our fridge tends to be bursting with bags of fruit and vegetables and arugula that will super-definitely be eaten before it wilts; but on the occasion of this particular photograph, taken the morning after my return from summer in Wyoming (before which a massive clearing-out had taken place), it mercifully boasts just five categories of items. First we have the New Perishables, last night’s jet-lagged bodega haul: yogurt, Dubliner cheese, eggs. Roasted red peppers, for some reason? Basic, utilitarian, devoid of any emotional relevance, destined for immediate consumption. Then there are the Dry Goods—farro, granola, polenta—which, thanks to my conviction that leaving them in the pantry would prompt a full infestation by New York City vermin, spent the whole summer in cold storage. Read More
August 6, 2019 Writers’ Fridges Writers’ Fridges: Jia Tolentino By Jia Tolentino In our series 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. Read More
June 3, 2019 Writers’ Fridges Writers’ Fridges: Kristen Arnett By Kristen Arnett In our series Writers’ Fridges, we bring you snapshots of the abyss that writers stare into most frequently: their refrigerators. The thing about a fridge is we spend a lot of time standing in front of it wondering what’s inside. We don’t wanna necessarily open it because that will let all the cold air out, but I also like to think we stand in front of that closed door because we’re allowing ourselves to think that it holds something we truly want. Infinite possibilities. We are keeping hope alive! Read More
September 4, 2018 Writers’ Fridges Writers’ Fridges: Olivia Laing By Olivia Laing In our series Writers’ Fridges, we bring you snapshots of the abyss that writers stare into most frequently: their refrigerators. Kathy is conducting an audit of her fridge. She has just had an email. A man she knows, B, who is truly among the most beautiful men ever to live, is in the hospital with an inoperable brain tumor. The symptoms had begun, the email said, two days after she had last seen him in May. B with his doe eyes, B who had set himself against death, who had been a hospital carer for so many years, was himself about to die. Once, they had been about to meet when she mentioned casually that she had a cough. No, B said. I can’t see you. I am looking after a neighbor who is immunocompromised. Somewhere on her laptop there was a photo of him when he was very young and recently bereaved, his arm around a cheetah. They looked the same, like blood relations. Read More
August 29, 2018 Writers’ Fridges Writers’ Fridges: Walter Mosley By Walter Mosley In our series Writers’ Fridges, we bring you snapshots of the abyss that writers stare into most frequently: their refrigerators. The champagne is something I’d never drink alone. I like having it there to remind me of something missing in my social life. It’s been there for over a year, gathering the chill but always welcoming. An ostrich egg was something I’d always wanted, but I didn’t know where to get one. Then I was at Whole Foods and there it sat among the turnips and beets in the produce section. That was three years ago. I’d leave it to my heirs if I had any. The ground beef and rib-eye steaks are always there, but like the river—never the same. My refrigerator, I now realize, has a past with little concern for the future. It could be a writer. You can read the rest of the entries in this series here. Walter Mosley is the author, most recently, of John Woman, out September 4th from Atlantic Monthly Press.