My refrigerator died on a Saturday. I ignored the early signs of trouble with the French-door, bottom-freezer Kenmore Trio — a unit just four years old, yet suddenly unable to keep milk from spoiling or Luna and Larry’s Coconut Bliss sorbet from melting into sugary soup.
Though I held fast to slim hopes, an unsympathetic repairman sent by Sears offered none, and the Kenmore could not be resuscitated. By the time you read this, my family will have survived for three weeks without freon-chilled produce, dairy products, tofu, soda or filtered water.
This isn’t a bad-customer-service sob story. As the weeks fly by — as I grow to enjoy walking the dog to the bodega each morning to spend $4 on two seven-pound bags of ice for a cooler, and as my 2-year-old daughter forgets about yogurt — I have to ask: Who needs a refrigerator?
It’s a relatively recent invention, after all. If Socrates and Plato ate frozen dinners, they pulled them from pits filled with snow; if the founding fathers wanted their Madeira wine chilled, they had ice that was cut from frozen lakes and stored in insulated icehouses. Humankind would have to wait for electricity to store its arugula and fish sticks at a specific temperature.