Floods aside, the biggest food risk faced by most people around here is a failing freezer.
I remember the physical and visual intensity of defrosting the freezer. This was, of course, back in the days before someone invented automatic defrosting. The towels were spread all over the kitchen floor, the trays and buckets strategically positioned, and a home found for the frozen food during the arduous process.
When I asked Mum how often she defrosted, she replied “Not as often as other people”. The timing was dependent on the ability to get food out of the freezer. Eventually, the ice would overgrow the packets and tubs like an uncontrollable white ivy. The inside of a freezer had the appearance of being alive. Every time you opened the door, it was a little bit different. The passage of time mattered.
To speed up the thaw, Mum would fill trays with hot water and sit them on the shelves. We would remove large lumps of ice to thaw outside or in the sink. As I got older, it became a game to monitor the thaw rate and remove the largest intact slab of ice possible.
The ice had an intriguing texture. It wasn’t solid like an iceblock. There was something lace like about the way it melted in my mouth. And the larger pieces held the impression of the undulating surfaces of the freezer.
The small freezer in the top section of my fridge auto defrosts. There is nothing to engage the senses. It is seriously functional and frighteningly boring.
There is nothing about it that could possibly prompt a blog post 20 years from now.
What is the world coming to?
Cherrie Zell 