My Refrigerator, Myself

If you want to know who I am, look at what I keep in my fridge. Sometimes for years and years and years.

They say the eyes are the window to the soul. But I think there are many ways to peer into the dark corners of the human spirit.

Take an underwear drawer, for instance. Outwardly, you may see a rather matronly mom. She’s all efficient sweats on the weekend as she takes care of chores that pile up during the week overseeing homework, lunches, and meal planning. Weekdays for work she sports her practical, washable separates in mix and match colors. Nothing going on under the hood, you’d think.

But then a peek into the back of her underwear drawer would knock you back a peg. That’s where you’d find her stash of Victoria Secret thongs and matching pushups in black lace and harlot red. But why the raised eyebrows? Just because she’s business in the front doesn’t mean she doesn’t have a party in the back.

Would you blame her for keeping her secret sauce hidden?

Can’t you just hear the thirteen-year-old brat in braces and braids squealing, “Ewwww, Mom, you wear that?”

So she saves the hot stuff for date nights with hubs when he brings out the tiger in the mom, the saucy vixen beneath the practical and efficient that yearns to breathe free.

Or, take your average bean counter, the guy at work who hasn’t been seen cracking a smile since the moon landing and only knows how to communicate in data speak.

If he has a music collection, you’d put your money on a few choice covers of his mother’s favorite Lawrence Welk top 40 LPs she left to him along with her hand-knitted doilies.

You’d think.

But walk by his apartment any Saturday night, and you might hear the heart-rending strings of Flamenco and the staccato beat of heels against parquet floors as he claps and clicks his heels, giving vent to his Spanish soul.

Or, maybe he turns up the Tango on his turntable as his knees fly out at impossible angles, his hair slicked to an oily sheen so close to his scalp it looks like a second skin.

You’d never think the backbone of the IT department bore the soul of Latin lover, but there he is, looking soulfully into the mirror, practicing the devastating half-leer should he ever work up the courage to actually venture out to a dance hall and show off his moves for the ladies.

Because you never know what turbulent passions lie beneath an unassuming exterior.

Now, if you wanted to know what secret passions fuel my day to day life, bypass my underwear drawer. Unless you have a thing for big, ‘ol granny underpants with fraying elastic. An exotic dancer? With these arthritic knees, are you freaking kidding me?

No, if you want to know what makes my heart beat wildly, take a look in my refrigerator.

Some might say it’s where condiments go to die.

I say I’m a collector of rare jams, jellies, mustards, chutneys, salsas, sauces, mayonnaises, ketchups…whoops, stop me before I fall over a cliff.

Can I help it if I can’t resist a jar of jewel-colored flavor enhancer with a label that makes me think I’m in a farmhouse in the south of France?

Or, come by around the middle of the month when I’m flush with cash from my Social Security check, and you’ll see me score fresh veggies and fruits at the local organic farmers’ market.

I’ll pinch and squeeze and sample the seasonal berries and tomatoes, bringing home only those varieties oozing with food porn color and fragrance.

And then, often as not, since I feed one person, not an army, let them sit in my vegetable bin until they grow something resembling that found in a petri dish.

I have more varieties of Asian sauces than a farmer has soy beans, with which he makes these concoctions. Black bean, sweet chili, hot chili, hot chili with garlic, sweet red chili, green chili paste, hoisin, oyster. And that was just for the recipe I cut out of a newspaper that went out of business after the Internet took over print media.

Did I enjoy that recipe or ever make the dish again? Honestly, I can’t recall. But you won’t catch me ditching the stash of ingredients in case I dig up the recipe and find myself moved to serve it again. Much like your grandmother’s fruitcake, these ingredients will last until the next millennium. No way I’m going to throw them away and have to pony up today’s prices for those tastes.

As for the myriad jams, jellies, and flavored mustards? Well, as I’ve written before, I’m trying to stay off sugar, so they’re mostly for display purposes. Anyone who opens my refrigerator comes away with the impression I’m vying for a spot on America’s Greatest Home Baker. There is such a show, isn’t there? If not, I’m ready when somebody grabs my idea and runs with it.

If you look carefully at the back corner of the second shelf from the top you’ll see my nostalgia collection. The tiny jar of estragon moutarde from my first visit to Fauchon’s in Paris in 2002, the salted capers I’ve been afraid to touch, a gift from my daughter and S-I-L on their first trip to Italy. When they’re gone, how will I replace them?

The homemade marmalade from that time I traveled to Ireland with my sister in 1986. I loathe marmalade, but how can I throw it out when just the sight of the jar makes me think of the gargantuan breakfasts in the B&Bs where we stopped, and Rita slathering on her favorite spread on the brown bread I loved.

Truthfully, I’m afraid to open these jars. In this age of hideous viruses, who knows what terrible creatures have been incubating in these condiments, ready to explode into the environment and invade the population with god knows what horrible illness.

Better I keep them in my refrigerator to jog my memory of happy days gone by. And, as an added bonus, I avoid having to deal with disposing of the contents, separating the congealed jams and jellies and sauces and washing the jars according to the recycling rules.

A trial our erstwhile sexy mom and Flamenco accountant never has to worry about (she said with a slight note of bitterness that a spoonful of the French cherry preserves could wash away, come to think of it!).

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