Hello. I am key lime marmalade. I have been living in the refrigerator for longer than anyone. I’ve seen many items come and go around here. Beer never stays for very long—except the organic gluten-free beer. He was around forever, but he was honestly sort of a killjoy. Sriricha was fun, and he lasted a pretty long time, too. I thought raspberry jam was my soulmate—we had so much in common!—but she really got around if you know what I mean. And then she was gone just like the rest.

The blonde one bought me at Christmastime ages ago. I heard her talking about me on the telephone while she decided whether she wanted me. “Marmalade is gross,” she said. “But he says he likes it. And it’s key lime, so…” There I went, into the basket with a bag of oranges, a tin of breath mints and some chocolates shaped like Santa.

He seemed happy to see me. He even opened me once. But the truth is that he doesn’t eat breakfast. Really. My feelings aren’t hurt. It’s him, not me.

That was before the smaller, screamier people turned up. I should have known something was up when the beer disappeared from the fridge and every time the blonde one opened the door she had a jar of Nutella in one hand.

Ever since then there’s been an avalanche of unidentified mush in here. But I’M the gross one. Right.

Anyway, it’s not so bad. Moldy olives and I get along great. I know ketchup and mustard think they rule the roost—they’re young and popular. But soon enough they’ll be gone, and I’ll still be here. And maybe raspberry jam will swing by for another visit.