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Don't put me in the refrigerator. The cold kills my flavor and turns my meat into flour. Let me out so that it keeps me fresh. I'm the onion. The smell of the refrigerator speaks to me and makes me feel faster. In addition, my smell will impregnate the rest of the food. Leave me in a well ventilated place. I'm the garlic. In the refrigerator, I think the winter has arrived, so I'm starting to germinate. I'm back elastic and viscous. My place is in a dry place. I'm the Pope. The cold turns my almidone into sugar. My taste goes back extremely sweet and I burn faster when I go to the fridge. Save me in the darkness. I'm the plate. The cold makes my face become black and immediately. And if you put me in the refrigerator, when I'm still green, I will never mature. Leave me out. I'm the avocado. If I'm still hard, the refrigerator will turn into stone forever and I will never talk to me. Leave me out until I'm mature. I'm the Sunday. The cold reduces my benefits and my red color. While I'm not open, leave me out. Once cut, you can put me in the cold. I'm the bread. The refrigerator is my worst enemy. The cold crystallizes my almidone and makes me put the speed of the radio. I'm back as a labyrinth.