Recently I bought a new refrigerator.
Believe me, it is a big deal - the thing is amazing. The appliance stands nearly as tall as me, and is impressively wide. It dominates an entire section of my kitchen, exactly like a big-and-tall casket standing on end. It has French-style doors, a pullout freezer, and even a separate wine drawer with adjustable temperature. How I lived without being able to precisely regulate the chilliness of moscato, I shall never know.
Most importantly, the fridge is clad in stainless steel. I can now invite guests into my home with pride, knowing that they shall recognize that I keep up with the latest trends in designer kitchen appliances.
On a related note, last spring I helped my great-aunt move into her new house. For years she had lived on a farm in the country. Now she would reside in town, and needed a hand transporting some of her furnishings.
The experience of helping my great-aunt move was bittersweet. There were so many fond memories from throughout my childhood associated with that farm. We used to go to there to cut firewood. It was where I went deer hunting when I was in high school. Our families would get together to play cards, and to this day I can still hear my parents, and my aunt and uncle, laughing over a good hand while I sat in the living room.
Every memory shared one focal point. Without fail, we always enjoyed a hearty meal. "It's nothing fancy," my aunt always said, as though she was apologizing for something. To the contrary, the meals were exquisite. There was always bread, butter, and thick slices of golden cheese. She usually prepared a goulash, stew, or something of the sort, with apple crisp for dessert.
And, there was a trick to having a meal at my aunt's house. It was essential to start with small portions; I learned too late to never, ever take a large serving at first. This is because halfway through she would notice if a plate was running low. Mid-sentence I would be asked, "Here, you want some more?" The question of course, was rhetorical - before I could even formulate a response, my plate would be loaded.
I have never felt so welcomed, or at ease, as when visiting my great-aunt and uncle. To describe the meals now makes it all sound so simple, but there is something about a genial home-cooked dinner that can absolutely not be replicated. It is fulfilling in a way that quenches the soul.
On the day I helped my aunt move I felt the pangs of nostalgia - of course I would visit her in the new house, but I was saddened by the realization that this could be the last time I drove that familiar route to her farm.
The furniture was loaded, boxes stacked, trucks to capacity for the short drive into town. We made one last sweep through the house when something caught my eye. Tucked away in the basement was an old refrigerator that had been purposely left behind. I remembered that fridge - one of my first beers came out of it.
I took a closer look. The appliance was in exceptionally good shape. It was not nicked, scratched, rusted, or even dirty. Sometime in the past, the power cord had been lovingly repaired. My aunt and uncle had bought it used decades prior, making it at least 50 years old. Over the years they had taken good care of it, with the idea that it would last a long time.
In the end, since no one else had a use for it, I brought the old refrigerator home. My wife and I had recently refinished our basement and were keeping an eye out for a beer fridge. (Author's note: It is relevant to point out that the term "Beer Fridge" is not pejorative. In the appliance world, there is no greater honor.)
I loaded it with beverages, plugged it in, and opened the door. I rotated the dial from "Off" to "Normal." The lights in the basement perceivably dimmed as the compressor kicked in, which is worth pointing out - the compressor on this thing is bigger than a football.
It was obviously working; I was not being electrocuted, so I shut the door and admired this piece of art. The door swung heavily, latching with a solid, audible click. The handle by itself was splendid; it latched and released in the same style as the door of a meat freezer. The fridge was rounded on top, giving it a clean, streamlined look. A massive General Electric emblem was proudly riveted to the front. The fridge fit perfectly into its designated spot, and looked good. It was stylish and hip in a way that will never be outdated.
A few hours later I returned. Holding my drink, I noticed ice crystals floating in the bottle. This was normal setting? I turned the dial down. Through trial and error I discovered that the ideal temperature was just above "Off," which translates to about 38 degrees.
Ironically, that old refrigerator has generated more compliments and started more conversations than the space-age piece of bling barely out if its shipping container in my kitchen. It is also quieter and clearly does a better job. Of course, I think of my great-aunt and uncle every time I grab an ice-cold beer.
They absolutely, positively, do not make 'em like that anymore.
- Dan Wegmueller of Monroe writes a column for the Times each Tuesday. He can be reached at dwegs@tds.net.
Believe me, it is a big deal - the thing is amazing. The appliance stands nearly as tall as me, and is impressively wide. It dominates an entire section of my kitchen, exactly like a big-and-tall casket standing on end. It has French-style doors, a pullout freezer, and even a separate wine drawer with adjustable temperature. How I lived without being able to precisely regulate the chilliness of moscato, I shall never know.
Most importantly, the fridge is clad in stainless steel. I can now invite guests into my home with pride, knowing that they shall recognize that I keep up with the latest trends in designer kitchen appliances.
On a related note, last spring I helped my great-aunt move into her new house. For years she had lived on a farm in the country. Now she would reside in town, and needed a hand transporting some of her furnishings.
The experience of helping my great-aunt move was bittersweet. There were so many fond memories from throughout my childhood associated with that farm. We used to go to there to cut firewood. It was where I went deer hunting when I was in high school. Our families would get together to play cards, and to this day I can still hear my parents, and my aunt and uncle, laughing over a good hand while I sat in the living room.
Every memory shared one focal point. Without fail, we always enjoyed a hearty meal. "It's nothing fancy," my aunt always said, as though she was apologizing for something. To the contrary, the meals were exquisite. There was always bread, butter, and thick slices of golden cheese. She usually prepared a goulash, stew, or something of the sort, with apple crisp for dessert.
And, there was a trick to having a meal at my aunt's house. It was essential to start with small portions; I learned too late to never, ever take a large serving at first. This is because halfway through she would notice if a plate was running low. Mid-sentence I would be asked, "Here, you want some more?" The question of course, was rhetorical - before I could even formulate a response, my plate would be loaded.
I have never felt so welcomed, or at ease, as when visiting my great-aunt and uncle. To describe the meals now makes it all sound so simple, but there is something about a genial home-cooked dinner that can absolutely not be replicated. It is fulfilling in a way that quenches the soul.
On the day I helped my aunt move I felt the pangs of nostalgia - of course I would visit her in the new house, but I was saddened by the realization that this could be the last time I drove that familiar route to her farm.
The furniture was loaded, boxes stacked, trucks to capacity for the short drive into town. We made one last sweep through the house when something caught my eye. Tucked away in the basement was an old refrigerator that had been purposely left behind. I remembered that fridge - one of my first beers came out of it.
I took a closer look. The appliance was in exceptionally good shape. It was not nicked, scratched, rusted, or even dirty. Sometime in the past, the power cord had been lovingly repaired. My aunt and uncle had bought it used decades prior, making it at least 50 years old. Over the years they had taken good care of it, with the idea that it would last a long time.
In the end, since no one else had a use for it, I brought the old refrigerator home. My wife and I had recently refinished our basement and were keeping an eye out for a beer fridge. (Author's note: It is relevant to point out that the term "Beer Fridge" is not pejorative. In the appliance world, there is no greater honor.)
I loaded it with beverages, plugged it in, and opened the door. I rotated the dial from "Off" to "Normal." The lights in the basement perceivably dimmed as the compressor kicked in, which is worth pointing out - the compressor on this thing is bigger than a football.
It was obviously working; I was not being electrocuted, so I shut the door and admired this piece of art. The door swung heavily, latching with a solid, audible click. The handle by itself was splendid; it latched and released in the same style as the door of a meat freezer. The fridge was rounded on top, giving it a clean, streamlined look. A massive General Electric emblem was proudly riveted to the front. The fridge fit perfectly into its designated spot, and looked good. It was stylish and hip in a way that will never be outdated.
A few hours later I returned. Holding my drink, I noticed ice crystals floating in the bottle. This was normal setting? I turned the dial down. Through trial and error I discovered that the ideal temperature was just above "Off," which translates to about 38 degrees.
Ironically, that old refrigerator has generated more compliments and started more conversations than the space-age piece of bling barely out if its shipping container in my kitchen. It is also quieter and clearly does a better job. Of course, I think of my great-aunt and uncle every time I grab an ice-cold beer.
They absolutely, positively, do not make 'em like that anymore.
- Dan Wegmueller of Monroe writes a column for the Times each Tuesday. He can be reached at dwegs@tds.net.
