So, what’s in your refrigerator?
When I was little, I always used to see stuff like this:
A BEAR IN THERE
by Shel Silverstein
There’s a Polar Bear
In our Frigidaire —
He likes it cause it’s cold in there.
With his seat in the meat
And his face in the fish
And his big hairy paws
In the buttery dish,
He’s nibbling the noodles,
He’s munching the rice,
He’s slurping the soda,
He’s licking the ice.
And he lets out a roar
If you open the door.
And it gives me a scare
To know he’s in there —
That Polary Bear
In our Fridgitydaire.
~ from The Light in the Attic, 1981
But now, instead of celebrating things for what they are, I question everything.
2% or skim?
Dill spear or sweet gherkin?
Chunky or smooth?
Ketchup or steak sauce?
I purposely avoid asking butter or margarine?,
since this can quickly escalate to
tub or stick?
name brand or store brand?
regular or organic?
plain or whipped?
How and why did things get so complicated?
I keep hoping that when I open the fridge, a completely prepared, nutritionally and politically correct meal will materialize.
Or that issues of life and death won’t present themselves in the Velveeta.
Or that I can even remember why I opened the refrigerator door in the first place.
And another thing, I thought refrigerators were supposed to keep everything cool, and make them last longer. You just can’t put time on ice.
Excuse me, while I gaze at my navel oranges.
by Gary Soto
Sometimes I’ll look in the refrigerator
And decide that the mustard is vaguely familiar,
And that the jar of Spanish olives is new to me.
What’s this gathering? The butter
And salsa, the two kinds of tortillas
And, in back, the fat-waisted Mrs. Butterworth.
I’ll study the plate of cross-legged chicken,
And close the refrigerator and lean on the kitchen counter.
Is this old age?
(Rest is here.)
Today’s Poetry Friday Roundup is at A Year of Reading.
Don’t take any chances, bring your own cooler!
Is it safe to eat tomatoes?
Or jalapeno peppers?
Was that a burp or an ulcer?
Somebody, stop me . . .