A week after my divorce, I found that I could slowly begin eating again. I would go to the local coffee shop and bring home a salad, or visit the frozen foods section of the grocery store for an organic pizza, which seemed like a cheap, convenient, and relatively healthy option. I limited my food choices to items I could easily trash, without dirtying a dish. I hated the idea of leftovers, because leftovers meant another addition to my already full, yet completely useless refrigerator. Useless because, instead of having recognizable food inside, my refrigerator was a vast, mysterious receptacle for unwanted, forgotten, probably spoiled and inedible items. There were expired containers of mayonnnaise, bottles of nearly empty (but not quite) soy sauce, and tupperware filled with god only knows what. I didn't want to deal with them, even though the only logical thing to do was clean out the refrigerator so that I could start anew. After many months, my refrigerator started to seem like the giant, humming, appliance equivalent of my failed marriage. Its contents were not simply old mustard jars and half-eaten slices of pizza; they were festering wounds. The hot sauce became the time he said my friends were losers; the relish screamed I never accepted your family. Clearly the fridge, and my life, needed an overhaul.