Refrig.

A jar of Pickled Beets in the refrig is always great insurance.

He runs in from school, checks the refrigerator, and then looks for the inevitable note. “Dear Tommy: Don’t eat more than three cookies. Jello in the refrig is for supper.[…]”

Food just vanishes when he’s around. I think he eats through some sort of process of osmosis. My husband says that by the time he gets home from the city in the evening, the refrig is always empty.

Lea put the phone down and looked at the mess she had made of her kitchen. Well, at least the floor under the refrig is clean now. […] He looked past her toward the kitchen. “It is still a mess.” She looked down shyly. “At least under the refrig is done.”

Now I see why my man always breaking his diets. The refrig is packed to the capacity.

“Did you eat?” / “Mom, I’ll call you tomorrow . . .” / “Where’s the food I sent?” / “In the refrig.”