The newly scoured, pristine white door opens. Fresh-bought foods tumble out trying to escape their feral brethren haunting the shelves, the dark, deep recesses. They lay forgotten, until this moment of truth, this time of excavation. They know their lids will lift; their rotten blackish-green growth will lend a palette of subtle stinking miasma no amount of baking soda can even hope to absorb. The putrid tendrils of leftover experiments gone horribly wrong creep up the inside of no-longer translucent anonymous stacked containers. Living cultivations of meals long forgotten. The horror!
Why do I always leave the fridge till last?