Saturday the new refrigerator arrived. The delivery guys, Carlos and his Silent Partner, said that 1 out of every 100 refrigerators they deliver does not fit, and it was our turn to be the exception that proves the rule. I will defend my spouse who is the Keeper of the Measurements. This is the first time in all our life together that this has ever happened so I blame 98% of it on the manufacturer. The other 2% comes from the 3/4″ of molding at the floor that was hidden by the old ‘fridge.
OK — so we take the molding off the wall and now the dang thing is 3/4″ too tall to fit under the cabinet, but don’t fret! Who keeps anything in those forsaken cabinets so high and away?? I did check up there and found those knife sets my Mother-In-Law INSISTED she gave me back in 2005, and damn it! Even from beyond the grave, she’s right! Carlos and Co. said they will work with us to trim the cabinet and we’ll shove the box in. Luckily, the Master has a vast collection of tools that cut through all kinds of stuff so after a little bit of measuring twice, three, four times, and navigating a little bit of a language gap, the guys installed my now “built-in” Frankenfridge! Here’s another secret, they sprayed Windex on the top and sides to slide it in, and it worked like a charm. It is bigger than I remembered from the store, steely and beautiful, and even more importantly my spouse’s eyes light up when he looks at it. (Makes me wonder if he’s got a secret crush on the Tin Man ~ I have not seen him look at me like that in recent memory.) You see, if I had unlimited resources I would design a really long galley kitchen where all pantry cabinets and pots and pans were at eye-level so the Master could see them. Because if it isn’t in his sight- line, it may as well not exist. And this refrigerator is one of those models with the freezer on the bottom and the 2 doors that open out….to reveal…. EVERYTHING! The thing also chastises you for wasting energy with annoying chimes when you stand there with the door open too long. I find this feature only slightly better than remembering my Dad yelling at me to make up my mind already and close the door ~ “We pay for that electricity to keep the food cold, not the house. Damn those Giants, how can they fumble that bad! Can you bring me a beer? ”
So after the requisite 24 hours at -2 degrees, we are now “harvesting” ice — that’s what they call it. I’m officially an ice farmer too.