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| Photo by ChatGPT |
You probably got up this morning, poured
yourself a cup of coffee, sat down, and thought, I wonder what’s happening at
Pattie’s house.
Well, let me tell you, hubris was happening.
Like a large portion of the country, we’ve
been living through snow, ice, and temperatures so cold they feel personal.
During this arctic interlude, I decided it was finally time to defrost the
upright freezer in the laundry room—a stalwart appliance purchased in 1979,
straight out of college, back when freezers expected to be defrosted and nobody
found this odd.
Here is where brilliance struck.
Given the prolonged single-digit temperatures, and my previous
experience with food on the deck (that you can read about here),
I reasoned that I could remove what remained of the frozen food (after much had
been stuffed into the kitchen and downstairs refrigerator freezers), place it neatly into a large laundry basket, drag said basket onto the
deck, and let nature act as my auxiliary freezer while the defrosting occurred.
Elegant. Efficient. Practically Nordic.
I congratulated myself immediately.
And then—over the course of about a day and
a half—everything thawed.
Now, if I knew anything about math or
science (I do not in a VERY big way), I might have factored in the sun. The very same sun that, despite
bitter air temperatures, shines down with quiet persistence and absolutely no
respect for human plans.
What greeted me when I finally checked on my
outdoor “cold storage” was not a reassuring tableau of solidly frozen
provisions, but a scene of quiet devastation. Packages of chicken. The brisket. The meatloaf.
Containers of chili carefully saved for future comfort. And worst of all, my homemade
mushroom stock—destined for Mushroom Brie soup I plan on bringing to
a soup party in the second week of February.
The stock leaked.
It leaked over everything.
And then, in a final act of mockery, it
re-froze into a brown, mushroom-scented slush that coated the basket, the
packaging, leaked out onto the snow — it was NOT pretty; there was a definite diarrhea vibe going on —, and my remaining optimism. If you’ve never encountered frozen
mushroom stock in its semi-solid phase, let me tell you: it is not charming. It
is deeply existential.
I stood there on the deck, staring at the
aftermath, experiencing that specific kind of disappointment that only comes
from having outsmarted yourself. On the plus side—and there is always a plus
side if you squint—the freezer is beautifully defrosted. It has not looked this
clean since Reagan was in office. And I was reminded, once again, that just
when you think you’ve gotten smarter about life, life reminds you, yet again,
that it has outsmarted you.
The soup party will go on. The freezer lives
to see another winter. And somewhere in the universe, the sun is still shining,
entirely unrepentant.
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| Much better, and you get a glimpse of my extensive battery collection. |
Next time, I’ll stick to the old-fashioned
method—boiling water, patience, and a lot of towels on the laundry-room floor.
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