My refrigerator is likely on its way out. Last Sunday it began making rude noises that sort of sounded like trucks were trying to find a place to park in my kitchen without my prior consent. There was sputtering, rattling, rumbling, and an otherworldly sound that I imagined was what a teleportation device would make---if it were broken. This happened while I had guests over, and we were in the living room having pleasant conversation and delightful Baileys-infused coffee. The period of impromptu industrial-mechanical death noise passed, and my almond-hued General Electric returned to its normal cycling of mere intermittent loudness. After my friends left, I went into the kitchen to take stock of what contents were at risk of perishing if my life suddenly became non-refrigerated. Fortunately, not much. I have not cooked lately, and there are no fresh foods, only condiments with questionable expiration dates stamped on them. I say questionable because I could no longer read them, which sort of tipped me off as to their viability. Some of the products may be from a time before expiration dates were mandated by health safety law to be stamped on products. Most of the items in my refrigerator are liquid: The big water jug, the emergency water jug (when The Apocalypse strikes I would prefer cold water, thank you); Diet Pepsi, a couple of those little bright plastic yellow lemon-shaped bottles with the green screw caps that announce to the world that I am harboring commercial lemon juice; three bottles of beer, and a number of wine bottles, some of which probably shouldnt have been chilled in the first place--but again, when the Big One comes, I will seek refreshment on my terms. The most expensive items are the very good bottles of Champagne, arranged in orderly fashion as a little army of good taste, in the most honored area of my appliance, the Super Cold Zone (the sticker proclaiming the Super Cold Zone is still on the back wall of the fridge). I can never be without Champagne. I must be prepared to celebrate on a whim . . . or not celebrate and just drink good bubbly. Up in the freezer there are a couple pints of ice cream. I will do the Right Thing and not let those suffer. I will be rather sorry to see my refrigerator go, but it may be time. It has been with me since I bought the townhouse new in 1986. It was the lowest priced model that I could get with the house, because, in those days, I was making $22,000 a year, and my Dad warned me that to afford the mortgage payments I would have to do without and live on hot dogs for a long time. I like hot dogs. Instead, I did without an ice maker for a long time, 28 years to be exact. I have never had an ice maker. I make ice cubes in those little plastic containers that I fill from the sink, and balance skillfully into the small rack in the top freezer where an ice maker would be. There is a little plaque above the rack that says GE Ice Service. I was the GE Ice Service. But now I buy bags of clear ice from the gas station. I love clear ice, it makes anything in a glass look just a bit classier, and a classy drink is its own reward. Years ago, I had this idea that my refrigerator would be more stylish if it didnt have that brown fake wood handle marring its otherwise stylish almond color. So I painted the handle with Krylon almond lacquer spray paint. The entire house smelled like lacquer for a month. All I could see was a shiny lacquered handle, which looked like it had too much spray paint. I used paint thinner to remove the lacquer, and for the next 25 years my refrigerator handle looked like it had been flocked for Christmas, with shiny white bits that would catch the eye, depending on how the sun was streaming through the kitchen window. I always thought magnets were tacky on refrigerators, so I compromised my urges by filling up ONLY one side, not the front, with my fabulous collection of cat magnets. Unfortunately, that side of the refrigerator is what the cats use to rappel from the counter to the top of the refrigerator, where they hang out and stare at me. Or just stare. They knock down my expertly arranged magnets, and then they think they are toys. I wake up in the morning at least once a week with a couple of flexible tiger magnets from the San Diego Zoo deposited near my pillow. My refrigerator is old, and cheap, and small, as was the type that went into small townhouses in the mid-1980s, but it has done all Ive asked of it. This GE has chilled my moms Jello molds, kept liquid antibiotics at the ready for a myriad of veterinary dosing; preserved the dead cicada bodies in little cardboard boxes that my Dad thought would make great gifts from Virginia for his buddies back in California. The crisper properly crisped those tossed mandarin orange salads that I served at so many brunches; and the Super Cold Zone earned its weight in gold all through the 1990s. The bags of clear ice in the freezer eased many hours of pain and swelling through too many orthopedic procedures and sports events. I will miss my almond GE refrigerator, but I will honor its history in its eventual replacement. No stainless steel or charcoal digital smart fridge for me. No, my kitchens small, 33-inch refrigerator well will be filled by an unassuming, functional, 21st Century descendent from the same corporate family--in bisque. After all, I need a good backdrop for those cat magnets.
Posted on: Fri, 09 Jan 2015 03:03:13 +0000
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