My Freezer, My Identity

The hardest thing to leave behind was the freezer. A mid-stomach-high chest, it was nicked and cut and banged up with gouges of rust. Bought off Craig’s List for fifty bucks post-divorce, I drove to a coastal town in another county to pick it up; white and clean and empty and waiting to be filled. The freezer slid easily into my beloved SUV, an almost new red Mercedes kept in the split, and initially deemed by my judgy, northeast sensibilities as too big and too flashy.

The freezer slowly swelled with my identity, a thoughtfully cultivated persona. I bought a shotgun, read about the forest and its tasty game, and found kind mentors to help with my crosshairs. I untangled surf cast line on windy, desolate beaches at sunset, and smiled innocently as I reeled up King salmon in front of drunken leering grown-up boys, sullen and resentful of my fish. Pride and ego extend to the unfortunate beasts’ butchering and preparation, nose to tail, along with the carcasses of local pigs and goats and sheep. I collected fine tools for each task, left cleaned and oiled and hung near the freezer. Traipsing behind me from house to house, the deep chest was now filled, brimming with dove and pheasant and salmon rillette and pork loins and deer chops and stocks and sausages and pancetta and smoked lake trout with just a whiff of wild fennel.