I like my fridge. Tall, silver, organised. I open it in the morning to get some milk for the coffee from the door compartment and yoghurt for my cereal from the middle shelf. There is a pack of blue cheese and some grapes. There is a joint of beef waiting for tomorrow. The bottom shelf is full of aubergines and courgettes for tonight’s thai curry. I have it all.

I do not like fridges of other people.
They are full, to the brim and I am scared to open them. Not because the food is going to fall out, but because the memories of excess are going to jump out of them and crawl their way through my nose and into my brain and I will see my mother’s fridge again.

I will see the fridge. White, tall, with shelves inside. I would open it in the morning and see three different types of milk, one open, one already curdled, out of date, another awaiting its turn, unless two more will be purchased, then it will curdle too. I would put my hand into the fridge, along the rows of half-eaten jam jars, three stacks of cheddar, packs of ham, some already slimy. I would just want to grab the yogurt for my cereal, but there would be three or four on the shelf to choose from. One was cherry, the other one was peach and the third one, well, there were no blueberries on the picture, but inside there were blue bits speckling the surface, so it must have been it. I had it all.

My mother did not like fridges of other people.
They were empty, with shelves clean and drawers with a few carrots. She was scared to open them, not because the food would be gone, but because the memories of hunger were going to suck her into the fridge, eat their way through her nose and into her stomach and she see her mother fridge again.

The fridge was white, small, with three shelves inside. She would open it in the morning to find a bit of sausage to give to her father. She would see how much of a baby milk there was left in the bottle and if there was any lard left in the crumpled packaging. She would put her hand into the fridge along the empty shelves to see if any jam was left on the bottom of a seemingly empty jar. There was half a spoonful. She had it all.

My grandmother did not like fridges of other people, either.