In our new series Writers’ Fridges, we bring you snapshots of the abyss that writers stare into most frequently: their refrigerators.

You are catching my fridge on a well-stocked day, and it still looks like where hope goes to die.

Starting at the top, you’ll see the shelf is being colonized by sweaters. This is because all the cedar balls in the world won’t rid me of the pesky moth problem that came with my apartment. A few years ago, the Internet told me the only solution was to store my sweaters in the freezer. This I have done … but there’s some spillover to the fridge. If I was a bigger garlic person, this might be a problem. But you’ll be relieved to know I smell okay. To the left are, quite obviously, eggs. And to the left of those … I don’t know what that is. “Can you keep a secret? So can I!” says the take-out box. 

On the next shelf, we’re dealing with a few perishables, including a lone tomatillo. There were more. I put them in everything. Also a half-drunk bottle of vodka that I hate but keep forgetting to throw out. The packaging is awful, everything about it is awful, and I got it a party where I didn’t have a good time. I don’t know why I’m punishing myself in this fashion. Oh, and that can of cat food? That may be the most expensive-per-ounce item in the fridge. What are you gonna do? Can’t fight love.

The next shelf has some pretty nice-looking kale, which is exciting for everyone involved. The kale, the fancy butter, and the eggs will probably have a date with destiny later this week. Also, there’s always orange juice and seltzer in my fridge. I pour the seltzer into the glass first because when I was little, I thought it wouldn’t mix right if you poured the juice in first … because then the bubbles want to escape. They need to be trapped by the juice or they’ll just leave. I am nota professional chemist, but this theory sounds solid enough to live by.

As for the door stash (at one point in my new book, I refer to this area as a “condiment rollercoaster” just because of that universal safety bar—wheee!), it’s a nonsense place. Hot sauce, cocktail olives, capers, jam, coffee, baking soda, fish oil (for the cat … I know), wine, more butter. All it’s missing is some rolls of film. Clearly, I’m not particular about it. Or about food in general, if these photos are to be believed. I think the secret is that my daily snacking takes place in a parallel universe, far away from the frozen tundra—the kitchen cabinets.

Sloane Crosley is the author of The Clasp, How Did You Get This Number, and I Was Told There’d Be Cake,a finalist for the Thurber Prize for American Humor. Her newest collection of essays, Look Alive Out There, is out today.