Refrigerators I have known
Show me your refrigerator and I’ll tell you who you are. Some people think the medicine cabinet is the tell all of our modern lives. They are wrong. It is the refrigerator, standing tall and regal, that reigns supreme. Behind its doors is the story of our lives. Married or single, old or young, messy or neat, health-food fanatic or junk-food devotee.
When I open my refrigerator and peer beyond the milk carton and yogurts, I find echoes of the past. Some of my first memories come from my childhood kitchen, which featured a hulking white Frigidaire, the kind you’d see everyone’s 1950s home.
Etched in my mind is a picture of my mother defrosting the freezer. Like a soldier dispatched to war, armed with nothing but cauldrons of boiling water, she attacked this most tedious of chores with vigor. The thickened walls of ice didn’t stand a chance against this determined homemaker on a mission.
By the time I left for college, we had an avocado green, Tappan refrigerator with side-by-side doors, adorned with an assortment of colorful magnets. All the white and stainless-steel appliances that followed couldn’t compete with the allure of that avocado green.
My mother’s dorm-sized refrigerator, in her assisted-living apartment, reminded me of the ones we bought for our children when they left for college. Except, instead of soft drinks and junk food, this refrigerator was stocked with Ensure and medicine. For a woman who had always enjoyed a robust appetite,the thought of it makes me sad.
My daughter and son-in-law, with my two young grandchildren, have a kitchen bustling with activity. Their refrigerator, reflecting the fullness of their lives, is jam-packed with food bought in bulk from Costco, jars of organic baby food and Chinese takeout containers. I don’t quite understand their filing system or how anyone can find what they are looking for. But it worksfor them.
Old Mother Hubbard’s cupboard doesn’t have anything over my own refrigerator, which is practically bare. I prefer this minimalist look. Like a curator in a museum, I carefully display our beautiful but overpriced fruit in tastefully crafted bowls. Artisanal cheeses are tucked away in drawers. Fancy condiments adorn the inside doors. It is a sight to behold.
I like life neat and orderly. Nothing sticky or messy. I have control issues. I’ll fess up to the fact that, while I struggle with my lack of command in the outside world, I enjoy being master of my domain inside the confines of our refrigerator.
I have a theory that there are two types of people: connoisseurs of leftovers and those of us who can’t abide them. My husband likes to leave a restaurant with a doggie bag in hand. He places it on a shelf. Several hours later, we’ll have the same conversation we’ve been having for 40 years. I’ll ask, “Can I throw that out yet?” And he patiently replies, “No. I’ll eat it later.”
Sometimes he does. Other times, after a couple days, leftovers mysteriously disappear and my husband doesn’t seem to notice. Or he does and doesn’t say anything because theman is a saint. I married well.
Five years ago, we updated our appliances and purchased a brand new stainless-steel Kitchenaide complete with a crushed-ice maker and water dispenser. This refrigerator is a workhorse, never giving us problems. No need to tend to it like my mother did with her Frigidaire backin the day.
In fact, the newest models, hot off the factory floor, are designed to tend to us. They have built-in computers that can connect to our cell phones and send alerts when we’re runningout of butter.
Is this a good thing? I’m not sure. I’m still trying to figure out the control pad on our oven. I miss dials and knobs. I dread the day when I’ll no longer be able to reach for a carton of milk without a degree in computer engineering.
I like to think, for the time being, I’m still a little smarter than my refrigerator. Although those days may be numbered.