July 10, 2018 Writers’ Fridges Writers’ Fridges: Ottessa Moshfegh By Ottessa Moshfegh In our series Writers’ Fridges, we bring you snapshots of the abyss that writers stare into most frequently: their refrigerators. Do you see that half-eaten can of tuna on the top shelf? That was a mistake. Most of the food in my fridge is inedible. It would be inedible even if the stink of tuna hadn’t penetrated through it all, because it’s old. I’m almost never at home in Los Angeles, where this fridge lives. I travel a lot, and when I’m in California, I go to Luke’s house, two hours away. Luke’s fridge is a lot like Luke: exploding with deliciousness. Who could be luckier than me? Luke opens his mouth and whole chocolate cakes fall out. He snaps his fingers and voilà—chicken cacciatore. One time he rolled over in bed and left in his wake an entire patch of strawberries. I don’t know how to explain it. He’s the most wonderful man in the world. I’m always well-fed when Luke is around. Then I come home, alone, to this—rotten lettuce. I just tried pouring that Soleil carbonated water over ice, and even the ice smelled like fish. Read More
May 22, 2018 Writers’ Fridges Writers’ Fridges: Carmen Maria Machado By Carmen Maria Machado In our series Writers’ Fridges, we bring you snapshots of the abyss that writers stare into most frequently: their refrigerators. What remains: dilly beans, which remain my greatest pleasure, pickled garlic cloves and capers and olives and artichokes and hearts of palm and roasted red peppers, Bloody Mary mix and assorted gourmet shrubs I bought in a book-induced panic, grapefruits for my grandma-style breakfast, asparagus and raspberries and jalapeños and bell peppers and arugula that’s going bad, Worcestershire sauce, champagne for the summer’s spritzers, hummus, beer, eggs, premixed margaritas, simple syrup, tonic, stock bouillon, half-and-half, butter, assorted Tupperware with half a lime, half a lemon, and half a can of chickpeas. Read More
May 16, 2018 Writers’ Fridges Writers’ Fridges: Leslie Jamison By Leslie Jamison In our new series Writers’ Fridges, we bring you snapshots of the abyss that writers stare into most frequently: their refrigerators. Any discussion of my fridge in the current moment needs to begin with a discussion of who lives in my home: my husband and I, our nine-year-old daughter (who likes Lunchables but not the particular flavor of Lunchable that has been sitting in our fridge for the past week), and our three-month-old daughter—who, in her beautiful way, takes up much of the time that might otherwise be spent, say, cleaning out the fridge. Which is all to say: our fridge is actually a pretty decent portal into the acts of survival that constitute our daily life. Read More
April 3, 2018 Writers’ Fridges Writers’ Fridges: Sloane Crosley By Sloane Crosley In our new series Writers’ Fridges, we bring you snapshots of the abyss that writers stare into most frequently: their refrigerators. You are catching my fridge on a well-stocked day, and it still looks like where hope goes to die. Starting at the top, you’ll see the shelf is being colonized by sweaters. This is because all the cedar balls in the world won’t rid me of the pesky moth problem that came with my apartment. A few years ago, the Internet told me the only solution was to store my sweaters in the freezer. This I have done … but there’s some spillover to the fridge. If I was a bigger garlic person, this might be a problem. But you’ll be relieved to know I smell okay. To the left are, quite obviously, eggs. And to the left of those … I don’t know what that is. “Can you keep a secret? So can I!” says the take-out box. Read More