Deep Freeze
Living in a tiny Manhattan apartment means one must do without certain creature comforts.
Like having a real kitchen.
Case in point: We don't have a real refrigerator. We have a mini -fridge, not unlike the kind you find in a college dorm room, filled with cans of Milwaukee’s Best and leftover pizza. Except that our fridge is filled with slightly more adult and snobbish indulgences: stinky cheeses, curries, a jar of cornichons.
The fridge also has a tiny freezer, which does not freeze things—it merely keeps food items slightly colder than the rest of the fridge.
Oh, sure, we’ve tried to find ways to cope with our lack of freezer. In a moment of desperation one night last winter, we actually purchased a pint of Hagen Dazs and attempted to nestle it in a pile of snow on our fire escape. Sadly, when the morning sun hit it, it melted.
So for the past three years, we haven’t been able to keep ice cream in the house, which is a sad thing for anyone, but an especially sad thing when you’re pregnant and on bed rest and it’s 97 degrees outside.
But Spiceboy, husband of husbands, men of men, savior of saviors, took it upon himself to order a mini-freezer to match our mini-fridge. It arrived late last week, just before the heat wave hit. When the UPS man delivered it, we held hands and danced happy circles around it, giddy with all of the prospects.
“I can freeze fruit!” I shouted.
“I can freeze chicken stock!” Spiceboy cried. “Ooh! And we can make ice cubes!”
Spiceboy set about arranging the freezer in our kitchen and plugging it in. Then we searched the fridge for items with which to make our first freezer offering. Spiceboy chose a container of home made chicken broth. I chose an ice pack that's been languishing in a liquid state since I had my tooth pulled last fall. We placed our offerings in the freezer with great reverence, peeking in on them every so often to make sure they were freezing, the opposite of checking on a batch of cookies in the oven.
On Saturday afternoon, Spiceboy ran to the grocery store for provisions and returned with our first official pint of ice cream. A pint of ice cream that we wouldn’t have to gobble in one sitting so it didn’t melt. A pint of ice cream that we could remove from the freezer any time we craved a cool, creamy treat.
Spoons poised at the ready, we passed the pint back and forth between us until we'd eaten our fill, then put the rest in the freezer for later. We lolled on the couch, high on sugar and cream, content as stoners after passing the bong, and listened to the soft, comforting hum of our new freezer.
The luxuries of this lifetime are great, indeed.
Like having a real kitchen.
Case in point: We don't have a real refrigerator. We have a mini -fridge, not unlike the kind you find in a college dorm room, filled with cans of Milwaukee’s Best and leftover pizza. Except that our fridge is filled with slightly more adult and snobbish indulgences: stinky cheeses, curries, a jar of cornichons.
The fridge also has a tiny freezer, which does not freeze things—it merely keeps food items slightly colder than the rest of the fridge.
Oh, sure, we’ve tried to find ways to cope with our lack of freezer. In a moment of desperation one night last winter, we actually purchased a pint of Hagen Dazs and attempted to nestle it in a pile of snow on our fire escape. Sadly, when the morning sun hit it, it melted.
So for the past three years, we haven’t been able to keep ice cream in the house, which is a sad thing for anyone, but an especially sad thing when you’re pregnant and on bed rest and it’s 97 degrees outside.
But Spiceboy, husband of husbands, men of men, savior of saviors, took it upon himself to order a mini-freezer to match our mini-fridge. It arrived late last week, just before the heat wave hit. When the UPS man delivered it, we held hands and danced happy circles around it, giddy with all of the prospects.
“I can freeze fruit!” I shouted.
“I can freeze chicken stock!” Spiceboy cried. “Ooh! And we can make ice cubes!”
Spiceboy set about arranging the freezer in our kitchen and plugging it in. Then we searched the fridge for items with which to make our first freezer offering. Spiceboy chose a container of home made chicken broth. I chose an ice pack that's been languishing in a liquid state since I had my tooth pulled last fall. We placed our offerings in the freezer with great reverence, peeking in on them every so often to make sure they were freezing, the opposite of checking on a batch of cookies in the oven.
On Saturday afternoon, Spiceboy ran to the grocery store for provisions and returned with our first official pint of ice cream. A pint of ice cream that we wouldn’t have to gobble in one sitting so it didn’t melt. A pint of ice cream that we could remove from the freezer any time we craved a cool, creamy treat.
Spoons poised at the ready, we passed the pint back and forth between us until we'd eaten our fill, then put the rest in the freezer for later. We lolled on the couch, high on sugar and cream, content as stoners after passing the bong, and listened to the soft, comforting hum of our new freezer.
The luxuries of this lifetime are great, indeed.
posted by east side girl at 7:36 AM
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