Can anything cure us of our addiction to the fridge?
If Jules Verne were alive today he could pen a uniquely modern tale of derring-do titled Journey to the Centre of the Fridge. For who can tell what iced mysteries lurk at the heart of your average refrigerator? The modern consumer, untrained in the way of the larder, tends to bung most of their week’s groceries straight into cooler departments, no matter whether this is the advised method of storage or not.
One good friend persists in putting jars of pickled gherkins in his fridge, even though the whole point of pickling is to embalm veg for future consumption. Don’t start me on those who chill jam, even though its accepted synonym is “preserve”. Half the people I know keep ketchup in their fridges, despite the fact Heinz tomato ketchup is like edible Kryptonite (if you’ve ever used some to clean a brass doorknob, you’ll know what I mean). I found a bottle on my in-laws’ shelves once that was 12 years old and perfectly delicious.
But it’s only this week I’ve learnt there are real, unrepentant humans out there who keep their coffee in the fridge. Why anyone would take dry goods from a hot land and place them in a cold, moist cabinet that reeks of cheese and fish defies reason. It also defies the existence of the Kilner jar, which has been keeping coffee and loose tea fresh for over 150 years.
In some ways it’s the lesser fridge crimes that trouble me most. I could not share my life with anyone who put tomatoes in the fridge, for instance. It would signal they valued longevity above flavour, and utility above delight. A tomato that has had its innards cooled never returns to the sweetness of a plucked fruit. Ditto apples. I’m sure I don’t need to tell Telegraph readers that parsnips are a no-no. You don’t need Mrs Beeton to tell you root veg should be kept in a cool, dry storage spot, rather than chilled into submission.
Although I can’t pretend my fridge-freezer is without eccentricities. If you manage to make your way past the crème fraîche, you’ll find what appears to be my secret opiate stash, but is, in fact, three syringes of teeth-whitening gel. My granny would turn in her grave to find me keeping sourdough in the fridge when I own a perfectly good bread bin. But, after years of experimentation, I can safely say cold bread beats stale bread every time, and nothing much is lost when your passion is for toast.
But it’s the freezer section that freaks out my husband and sons. They stick their hands in for fish fingers and retreat clutching icy cardigans. This is because the best way to kill clothesmoth larvae is to give them the Arctic treatment. I’ve even been known to squish a coat in with the peas.
You can tell rather too much about a person from the stuff they put in their refrigerator. I was reminded of this last week when my sons, who are racing through Sherlock on BBC iplayer, laughed when Mrs Hudson found a bag of severed thumbs in Holmes’s icebox. I was instantly reminded of the pal who keeps white mice in hers to feed the family’s corn snake.
My late mother’s fridge should have borne the notice “Abandon hope all ye who enter here”. There were endless cracked pottery dishes holding what appeared to be a concoction of lard, beef dripping and botulism. And there was generally an old ice-cream tub full of dog food that could be mistaken for mince. Half of one such batch once fell in her carrot soup and she served it to my vegetarian husband anyway.
On balance, perhaps cold coffee beans are just the right side of insanity.