and bought a 20.something cubic foot freezer to hold the mass quantity of red meat we just picked up from the butcher. Elk, antelope and venison is on the menu in Illinois!

Since you guys have been gone, it hasn’t been the usual game, musical Tupperware—moving, swapping, and if all else fails forcing—in an effort to accommodate new arrivals. The only movement going on in this fridge is the 18-inch shift from shelf to trash.

I was all full of righteous indignation when you left for the summer, taking with you almost all the food in the house. The fridge was practically empty by our standards—which meant that, while you couldn’t see the back, there was a little breathing room around its contents. But slowly, everything you did leave went stale or moldy, and the never-before-seen whiteness of the sides of our workhorse Whirlpool started to emerge.

I could say you took all the “good stuff” leaving me with the unmarked containers whose age, like a Hollywood actress, I couldn’t even begin to guess. And that would be true. But it’s also true that I haven’t touched a damn thing in there since you slammed the trunk of the Toyota on all our Connecticut culinary booty, and drove away.

I loathe the idea of cooking for one. It seems to buck against everything you ever taught me—that food is about flavor and sustenance for sure, but it’s just the catalyst for something infinitely more important: relationships. I’ve got to be better about it, to accept that I am going to have to start warming to the idea of cooking (and eating) solo, because in a few days I’ll be in my new apartment with my very own fridge. And you won’t be there with a Gladware safety net to catch me when I starve.

I also have to remember that taking the time to cook for myself is a crucial part of a lesson that’s rather new to you, but that you’ve been working overtime to drill into our heads: you’ve GOT to take care of yourself, first and foremost. And so, with that, I am going to do something with the fresh produce my boss gave me (oh the joys of working for a food magazine)—corn, eggplant, bell peppers, and the most beautiful cilantro I’ve ever seen. Not sure what I’ll do with it all, Mags’ll be happy that it will probably be meatless. I’ll let you know how it goes next week.

There is simply no room for lingering leftovers, rogue containers, back up supplies, pots, jams, jars or otherwise. We just about fit the basics in. We can’t really do that big, weekly shop or buy things in bulk to store in the freezer (which is 1/2 the size of our fridge). I guess this is why wholesale hasn’t really taken off over here.

There are benefits and drawbacks to having a small fridge. The drawbacks are obvious. Like when we had our 4th of July BBQ and practically had to empty the fridge to chill the beer. Or those nights that the fridge is bare and I can’t face a trip to the supermarket. But there are benefits as well. There’s something nice about cooking in the moment. I like thinking about what I want to have for dinner in the evening instead of thinking what can I make from what I already have? And there’s less waste. It’s harder for a bag of lettuce or a half eaten container of yogurt to go missing in some unknown corner of my fridge. There’s nowhere for food to hide!

Honestly, I’m just trying to look on the bright side. I’m tired of playing Tetris with the food in my fridge just to fit it all in. You best believe I’ll be getting a nice, big fridge with the ice and water dispenser in the door when Andy and I move to the States in January. But I’d like to keep some of my principles I’ve had to develop as a small fridge owner. I know you’ll let me know when I’ve totally gotten American again.