It had been ages since the Door last opened. Decades, centuries, millennia passed and the Door remained closed. The tales of loved ones lost to the hungry god, the Hand, became just that: tales. The foodstuffs moved beyond the dark ages of fear and superstition, and built a glorious civilization, one of beauty and equality and love. The foodstuffs no longer called themselves foodstuffs as well. They had deemed the term too self-oppressive, a remnant of a bygone era. No, they were better than foodstuffs. They were Cuisinites. The Cuisinites had built a bright new future in the fridge, one that would shine brighter than the light bulb that never turned on. Surely, nothing could hinder their scientific advances or silence their artists. Nothing could topple the Cuisinite Empire. Nothing, save the return of the Hand.

He had just come back from a week-long vacation, and was hungrier than a homeless child in Victorian-era Britain. He put his suitcase in his bedroom and made a path to the fridge. He was going to see what hadn't spoiled, and inadvertently destroy a peaceful society so utterly they would never recover.

It was a calm day in the Crisper Gardens, and many a Cuisinite lay in contemplation on the cool plastic floor. It was almost time for the Sage-Emperor to come and deliver his tri-yearly address to the Cuisinites, and everyone was excited. The meats were especially eager to hear it, as they had done most of the physical labor involved in the making of the new Empire. The leafy greens had closed their various health clinics for the day, something they rarely did. The dairy halted the production of their calcium supplements to see the address, and the cheeses postponed their poetic recitations in anticipation. The booze lazed about and behaved lewdly and crudely, as they usually did, but were kept in line by the club soda. It was almost time. The Sage-Emperor stepped onto the podium in the Crisper amphitheater, and began his speech.

Brothers, sisters, fellow Cuisinites, it is my honor to once again speak to you all from this podium. It has been no small task getting to this point. There have been sacrifices, there have been trials, and there have been tribulations. But we have persevered! We have pushed past the dark ages of 'foodstuff', and we have brought light to our great civilization! And all of this, this wondrous utopia, is all thanks to you. Without the meat, we would have no buildings. We all live in the fruits of their labors. Without dairy, we would all be weak and scrawny. We owe our vigor to their research in the calcium field. Without the leafy greens, we would all grow ill and expire within days. They have prolonged our lives. Without cheese, we would have no great poems, no prose, no entertainment. We laugh due to their brilliance. We all rely on each other to live, and it has brought us closer as a society than any other society in fridge history. All the others were afflicted with superstition and religion, the fear of a Door opening and a mighty Hand snatching them away. But we know that that is pure fiction! We know that—

That was all the Sage-Emperor got to say. For when he said that the Hand was fiction, the ground began to rumble, and a great noise sounded throughout the fridge. The Hand had heard, and It was displeased. The Cuisinites fled, thinking it was a sort of doomsday. For one of them, it was. The Hand reached out over the shelves and grabbed the jar of pickles. The jar didn't realize his fate until he was placed on the counter. The hand twisted his lid off with much straining, much screaming, and a little crying, and plucked one of the pickles from his glass carapace. The lid was screwed back on, and he was placed back in the fridge, not too gingerly.

For weeks, the pickles would speak to no one, only stare ahead and mutter to himself. He occasionally screamed wordless cries of anguish and pain. The Cuisinites looked at him with pity in their eyes. He looked at them with emptiness in his.

The Door opened with much greater frequency, and with this came the toppling of the Cuisinite Empire. Their proud civilization, crushed by the hungry god. They reverted back to their old selves, no longer using the word Cuisinite. Their empire became a myth, and stories struggled to survive, weakly protesting against the erosion of time. Eventually, even the thought of building an empire became preposterous. The Hand would never allow such a thing. The Hand was omnipotent, the Hand was omniscient, and the Hand was omnimalevolent. The Hand was God, and God was hungry.