Empty Fridges of my Past

Joan Grey

***

It’s odd, thinking about how my life as a child has affected who I am as an adult.

That sounds silly, when I look at it on the screen — of course my childhood affected me. DUH. But, what I mean is less about the directly obvious things and more about the tiny moments where I see my personal past print directly through onto my present life.

I grew up terribly poor. Not just ‘wearing second-hand clothes’ poor, but wearing freebox clothing poor; wearing clothes we actually paid money for was a step UP. This means that I’m uncomfortable now with buying new clothing, although undies and shoes must always be new (not just new-to-me). This also means that I learned how to sew, but those are both different posts, about slightly different things.

This morning, I woke up to the sound of rain and thunder. It was lovely and luxurious; I don’t have to be anywhere but here, my house is warm (although it’s not cold out — this warm, muggy New England summer weather suits me just fine), and I have food in the house to eat.

And that, there is the thing that struck me, after I peeled myself out from under the cats on the bed and stumbled downstairs.

I don’t have to worry about whether or not I have food for breakfast.

I mean, I haven’t consciously worried about that for years. My current life is wildly luxurious, especially compared to my earlier life (in childhood and early adulthood). But as I stood staring into the depths of my fridge, the kettle beginning to wind up to a full boil behind me, I was reminded of the empty fridges of my past. For one short moment, just a heart-beat of time, I wasn’t quite sure this was my fridge. (Spoilers: it was, and it needs cleaning.)

I blinked, and it was familiar again; the carton of hard-boiled eggs sitting squarely on top of the carton of raw ones, the piles of salad greens balanced delicately on top of the large bottles of fizzy fruit drinks (see above in re: muggy New England weather), the drawers of meat and cheese…

And I reached for the cooked rice and a large handful of delicious rainbow chard, looking for a breakfast that I grew up eating, a reminder and connection to the food my mom taught me to make. It was cheap and nutritious, and now I’m the only one in the house who likes it. Sauteed chard (and other dark greens, if you’ve got them, if you can afford them, if they grow near you, if you can grow them, if if if…) with garlic (always cheap, always delicious), and then when the chard is softened, an egg, fried in the leafy nest (if you’ve got the egg, if you don’t need to save it for dinner, if you have time to let it cook, if if if…), and all of that slipped onto a bed of rice, seasoned with soy sauce and (if you’ve got it to spare) a sliver of butter.

And I sat, in my home (that my husband and I own), and watched out the window as the rain fell onto my very own garden, and let myself fill with love and joy for the way time changes all things.

I wonder what I’ll have for lunch.