Illustrator： Abee Lin
The communal refrigerator in the Shijian dormitory was a brief nightmare, a hellscape demanding cleansing every Friday. Subsequently, in a rented abode, the refrigerator—a compact model—was purchased by my roommate, Zhongzhong. The limited freezer space accommodated merely one tub of ice cream per person among the three of us. Only post-cleaning could it house a larger container. Later, when Abee's boyfriend joined our household, the refrigerator became perpetually crowded. During periods of minimal cooking, many items were consigned to disposal upon entry, and occasional foul odors emanated from this diminutive appliance.
At my family home, the refrigerator is the domain of my mother and father. My territory consists of popsicles in the freezer, occasional chilled beverages, soy sauce on the top shelf, and chocolate. The appliance's organizational logic eludes me; when instructed by my mother to defrost meat, I require telephonic guidance to navigate its contents. The intricate freezer arrangement remains inscrutable; I perceive only my popsicles nestled within its crevices.
In my second London dwelling, I shared a refrigerator with another roommate, an Argentine. We divided the appliance into her space and mine. Culturally, our respective territories were unmistakable: my shelves bore canned milk tea, plum wine, Korean kimchi, braised pork ribs, Japanese curry, and rice; hers held lettuce, beer, cheese, milk, and an assortment of meats. Our sole commonality in the realm of food was perhaps the eggs, which resided outside the refrigerator. Here, sustenance was swiftly consumed; daily cooking dictated the appliance's industriousness. Provisions came and went, increased and diminished, maintaining a frigid equilibrium within shared spaces.
One day, I shall possess a grand refrigerator. Filled exclusively with my cherished edibles. No compromises. No missing yogurt cups. Just mine.