The Sonoran hot dog is not the problem (probably)
We’re still having a conversation about our refrigerator out here in the desert—how much do we really need? Or maybe more honestly: how much actually fits into the half-sized fridge that came with the tiny house?
It’s not just the fridge. The washer, dryer, bathroom sink—everything here is scaled down. Even the shower is a pleasant surprise: tall enough for me to stand under without hunching like a crypt keeper. Storage space? Turns out, we have enough. Clothes, dry goods, dishes (not enough for a dinner party, but we’ve accepted that parties of eight are… unlikely, for now). Even Neko the cat has his own private cabinet for his litter box. Credit where it’s due: Lori’s been the architect of this quiet sufficiency. She shops and organizes with a clear question in mind—what do we actually need?
And all is well. Until Thursday grocery day.
That’s when the fridge becomes a negotiation. What will fit? What do we have room for in the freezer? And inevitably, I’ll let out a small whine: “I don’t have anything to eat.”
Now, to be fair, our boys are off living their own lives, and Lori and I often cook for ourselves. Her diet’s more plant-based, more thoughtful, more…well, reduced. She finishes things. Even old coffee. She was built for tiny house living.
Me? I’m built for just-in-case scenarios. My backpack is a disaster kit: allergy meds, spare vitamins, backup mask, hat, underwear (because what if I’m in an accident?), and snacks. Always snacks. There’s even a lint roller in the glove box. Just in case.
So I shouldn’t be surprised that when I bemoan our dinner options, what I’m really craving isn’t food—it’s something shiny. New. Exciting. The burrito from Nico’s. The Sonoran hot dog from the taco truck. Anything but leftovers. Anything but planned.
And that’s when Lori drops a line that sticks:
“I think you have food anxiety.”
At first, I push back. I’m not anxious. I’m prepared.
But when I sit with it—really sit—I can feel the truth: it’s not just about food. It’s about enoughness.
I like the first day of things. The thrill of novelty. The illusion of abundance. I’m drawn to the beginning—and not always great at sticking around after that.
I remember being on a studio tour in L.A. as a teenager, seeing the Leave It to Beaver house and the ominous Bates house from Psycho. Both of those houses had meant a lot to me growing up. I watched the Beav and Wally and their parents navigate life in the black-and-white 1950s—Wally’s classic big brother shrug in response to Eddie Haskell’s constant ribbing still sticks with me: “He’s just giving you the business.”
And then there was Psycho—the ultimate Hitchcock film. A story of mothers and sons and the women who got in the way. Creepy, brilliant, unforgettable.
Now here I was, riding past the real houses, the actual backlot structures. Except, of course, they weren’t real. They looked complete from the front, but walk around back and there were no kitchens, no hallways, no place for June to serve dinner or Norman to brood in the attic. Just façades. Partial shells made to seem whole.
That’s stuck with me. Because in my life, I’ve built façades too—intentions without plans, promises without timelines. I’ve craved the feeling of readiness without doing the work of commitment. The tiny house, in contrast, is the real deal: there’s a kitchen, a place to sleep, a place to clean up. And yes, a fridge. Not big, but real.
So now, in the desert, I’m trying to live differently.
To see limitations not as punishments, but as clarity.
To sit with what’s already in the fridge.
To stop mistaking shiny for sacred.
To remember that the leftovers are still food.
That the promise is still mine to keep.
