Fridge Politics

The lettuce exploded.
I don’t know how—
I just opened the fridge and there it was,
shredded like it had fled a crime scene.
The tomatoes had gone soft
from existential despair.
I tried to rescue them,
but they collapsed under questioning.
The cucumber was fine.
Too fine.
Smug, untrustworthy—
I don’t like vegetables that look like they know something.
Then the dressing spilled
down my leg,
like an accusation.
I considered abandoning the plan,
ordering pizza,
claiming the kitchen had been overtaken by hostile greens.
But no.
I pressed on.
I am brave.
I have tongs.
Later,
eating a bowl of something vaguely healthy,
I felt like a survivor.
Not of war—
but of fridge politics,
cutting board diplomacy,
and the quiet chaos
of trying to do the right thing
with rocket and romaine.