"You mustn't hide too well. You mustn't be too good at the game. The player must never be bigger than the game itself." - Jean Baudrillard

I cleaned my refrigerator today.

I threw out the leftover homemade pickles from this summer, and the month-old applesauce, and two half-eaten yogurts, and the A1 Steak Sauce I don’t even remember buying, and the six bread bags, each containing two heels, bread crumbs be damned.

I took out and washed in warm soapy water (as directed) all the shelves and drawers. I took the Lysol and Fantastik to the interior. I wiped the grime out of all the rubber gaskets, and the coil cover. I even managed to get the red marker off the front of the door.

There was a giant splatter of something deep red all down the back of the fridge; it looked like a murder scene. There was also a puddle of something that smelled suspiciously like molasses pooled in the left back corner under the veggie bin, that I had to take a spatula to.

I rearranged all the shelves when I put them back in, so my juices – which I take out once a day – are on the bottom shelf, and the breads – which I take out at least three times a day – are on the top shelf. I swapped the veggie drawer with the fruit drawer, because I use the fruit drawer more frequently and wanted to have easier access. (Hmmm, my OCD seems to be kicking in a bit…) In short, I redesigned my refrigerator to be more user-friendly.

H can never find anything in there anyway; he couldn’t spot a leftover if it leapt out and bit him, so I might as well make it work for me – as I am the primary grocery shopper/putter-away, and cook.

We recently acquired a second refrigerator that lives in the basement, for the stocking-up of chicken nuggets, waffles, and frozen pizza; for the beer and soda; for the five pounds of chicken breasts that were on special. I love having a second fridge, and as my only working oven is also in the basement and my pantry is on the landing to the basement, there’s a part of me that’s tempted to just set up my kitchen down there and be done with it.

I could call it my “Passover kitchen” or my “little old Italian lady” kitchen. Or I could call it my “Someday I am going to trip and fall up the basement stairs while carrying hot things” preventive measure.

Or I could just admit the truth (but only to you), which is that I hide in the basement when I need peace and quiet for ten minutes, under the guise of sorting dirty laundry or keeping an eye on something in the oven.

And that I have taken to keeping a book down there, to read while I am “keeping an eye on something in the oven.”

Don’t tell.