One January in Paris, I held a well-wrapped bag of Brie outside my third-floor window.

Street lamps shone on deep green leaves as snow melted in the cool air. I wound my window closed, holding the edge of the bag until it was firmly secured in the protective corner of the outer pane.

With hundreds of students and only one kitchen, leaving food in the communal fridge was like giving it away.

Four years later, in my new apartment in Toronto, I stood in front of what sounded like a fridge with bronchitis. I started to view it less as a useful appliance than as an unneeded annoyance.

In what felt like a radical decision, I unplugged my fridge. Read the complete Post.