Freeze Frame

I think that I sometimes give the impression here of being very organized; but with certain things, I can procrastinate for an impressively long time.

Eventually though, enough is enough. Like when I opened the door of our basement freezer and forced myself to admit that only a very slim package of bacon could fit through the solid wall of ice. Even the interior lightbulb had been reduced to a faraway, dull yellow glow inside its icy globe.

Something had to be done.

Feeling shrewd that I had chosen to tackle this in February (when frozen perishables could be stowed away in coolers outside) we began the task. Many, many kettles of boiling water were schlepped up and down the stairs, there was blowdrying, and later, some laying on of hot towels till the freezer looked – exactly the same.

(Did I mention that it had not been defrosted for over 10 years … )

But as light and good humour began to fade, we decided to abort the mission and let it continue to thaw during the night. The General, now in full-on pioneer mode, also moved all of the foods into the trunk of the car where they would remain safe from raccoons and any sudden temperature rising.

I am always amused that The General has two settings when any domestic job-tackling presents itself: ‘OFF’ (his preferred default setting) or ‘TURBO GENERAL’ (self-explanatory and often alarming to onlookers). Anyway, during the night an entirely perfect exoskeleton of the stainless steel shelving came loose – all in one piece – and we were able to liberate a diagonal surf board of waffle-ice in the morning.

Now we have an organized, pristine freezer and a feeling of great smugness should anyone air drop in to judge us. (No one is coming, but still – it’s a good job done).

All this reminds me of a story once relayed by an older work colleague about her own freezer excavation and the discovery of a lone pot roast at the very bottom. Still wrapped in its butcher paper, she could just make out the date, written on the side. Apparently, the meat was over 15 years old. Once the powdery frost was scraped off, the roast inside was a puckered shade of elephant grey. “And you know what?” she said, leaning forward in the manner of someone who had enjoyed telling the story many times before. “We got some potatoes. Carrots. Couple onions. Put a lid on. Geez, it was good. Best I’ve ever had.”

I was speechless, so she added. “Fall off your fork.”

I remain fascinated by this story and have pondered it throughout the years, never being able to decide if it was true (and how could it be?) or if the teller had only eaten some really diabolical roast beef dinners in her time. This was someone who also regularly sliced up stiff, cold, leftover porridge and “fried it up good” in bacon fat. So there’s that too.

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