Dairy cannot survive in my fridge. Eggs can’t hang in for very long. Produce doesn’t last either (though, in all fairness, that’s because I usually only buy watermelon and I devour it the second I buy it, so I can’t really blame that on the fridge).
I tried to make eggs for breakfast last week. That is huge for me. Normally, breakfast consists of dry Cinnamon Toast Crunch in the office. I don’t tend to pencil breakfast in. On the days when I feel like I need something salty, or, you know, filling, I can just grab something on the way to work (I pass at least 3 breakfast-friendly to-go eateries on my way to the office). Imagine my disappointment, then, when I realized that my eggs were no good. Barely 2 weeks old and they were completely inedible. They had frozen.
I grumbled my way to work that morning, planning to make up for my lack of a homemade start to my day with a delicious dinner. WRONG AGAIN. The pack of shredded cheese that was in my fridge, just chillin’ (and yes, ALL puns intended), had taken it too far. It had frozen too. And then melted.
I realized on Saturday night that my fridge held a murderous rage toward all things that I liked to eat. Armed with a non-frozen bag of Mexican shredded cheese and prepared to make burrito bowls that rivaled Chipotle’s (which, by the way, they TOTALLY did…and I made the best guacamole I’ve ever made in my life. Just saying.) I was PISSED to find out that my sour cream had far surpassed the appropriate amount of sour.
That is IT refrigerator! I have had it! I raised you up to “5” on the little dial because do you want to know what you were doing when you were set at “4”? Do you want me to remind you? You were MELTING everything. So, Fridgey-poo, let me get this straight: you melt all of my food at “4;” you freeze all of my food at “5;” you do not come with half-settings. There is no 4.5 that I can turn my dial to. In fact, I’m lucky if I can even turn my dial, aren’t I? I don’t think you were designed to have the dull end of the fork jammed in you every time you get a little crazy with your temperature. And yet, that is what I am resigned to.
So what now, refrigerator? Huh? What now? I can’t live with you! And, slight lactose intolerance aside, I can’t live without cheese so therefore can’t live without you. It’s either you or me, Fridge, and it ain’t gonna be me.