chillin' out, chillin' in

My memory is going.

Three years ago, our blogger pal John Calypso, over at Viva Veracruz, challenged his netizen colleagues to show various parts of their houses. My kitchen response was someone's in the kitchen with steven.

I was positive he had presented us with a similar challenge while I was still living in Oregon -- show us what's in your refrigerator. But, I must have imagined it.

There is no such post in my archives -- even though I am positive I once used a photograph of my Salem refrigerator in an early essay. Of course, I can't find that, either.

Probably never happened. Similar to my memory of having seen Edith Piaf in Paris with my Uncle Don and Aunt Bessie in 1958 (my best girl).

And that is one reason eye-witness testimony is so unreliable. We remember what happened in snatches and bits. And we remember best what never did happen.

But I like the refrigerator challenge. So, I am pulling out one of John's tricks, filtering it through the fetid network of my memory, and adding a bit of my own sauce to the recipe.

I will start it off. The contents of my refrigerator are posted at the top of this essay. And, as matters of this nature go, I will leave it at that.

No further commentary is required. Even though I am certain some of you may have questions of just what some of the colored blobs are in my refrigerator.

So, bloggers, pull out your cameras, throw open the door of your refrigerator, and share what is there.

Just one rule: shoot it as it is. No re-arranging or tidying up. Our is a journalism of realism.