I've heard it said that writers have the cleanest refrigerators. So intent are they on not staring at the computer screen that they're standing in the kitchen, slightly chilled, hip propping open the door, running a damp sponge around the neck of the mayonnaise jar and (once again) viciously rubbing the red circle from under the bottle of Frank's Red Hot.
Let's just say, I've got a quiet day at home and a whole drawer full of old broccoli. I can only hope that by nightfall, my eyes hurt and my fridge (still) emits the most peculiar of odors.
2 comments:
My fridge is amazingly clean. Or it was. It's kind of a constant, unspoken battle between me and Randy. I throw out the old broccoli...then he comes to find me asking, "where did that broccoli go?" And I explain "but baby, it was old." Then he says, "No it wasn't." Then I shrug and go back to what I was doing.
I bet Hemingway's was a clean, well-lighted fridge full of absinthe and beer
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