Rights of Sausage or The Fridge

This began as a parody of The Bridge (Rites of Passage) but the story would not allow itself to be a joke.

The Fridge

 

I am just a fridge, an old Maytag fridge.  Nevertheless, for many, I am an altar, of box design to be sure, yet a place of decisions, and a site of some significance in the memories of two families.

 

Those who seek out forbidden calories always, always come to me in the night.  They open my old door, and stand motionless, studying my contents as if amazed at the culinary collection.  They lean down as if to see if the view from a different angle will change my offerings.  I don’t think it does, but, I am just an old Maytag fridge, and thus immune to the imaginings of those seeking sustenance.

 

Awareness came to me when I was plugged in for the first time, and when my door was opened, my interior light came on.    With no contents, the temperature dropped quickly.  I knew this condition as unnatural and wondered when I would be filled with foodstuffs.  I was then unplugged and wrapped in cardboard. 

 

I remained in storage for such a time, that I became no more than a lump of inert metal.  But one day, men with loud voices and louder trucks came and moved me.  I was delivered to a small, modest home and with much grunting and whispered curses, I was installed at the end of a short counter and across from an old gas stove.  I had a home!

 

In this home, there were only two, and my contents were meager and small.  Eggs in bowls, milk in glass bottles, and small chops and cuts of meat wrapped in white butcher’s paper.  Then one day, there was more milk, but a different kind.  As the years pass, that has been the only constant--milk, in all its various forms.

 

I’ve studied their faces as they peer into my depths.  I’ve seen worry in the small hours of morning as the woman reached for the youngest one’s milk, and I’ve sensed contentment from the man as he reached for milk and cold meat.  The small ones, with big grins on dirty faces, stretched their skinny arms to retrieve Kool-aid, and the adolescents grabbed anything they could consume while standing. 

 

The contents increased in size, amount and variety over the years.  I have seen their fresh-scrubbed faces in the mornings with background noises and shouts of “Where’s my...” and “Don’t forget’s...”.   I have seen their faces in the nights with the ticking clock as their only companion.  I’ve seen indecision as they contemplate the contents to feed not only their hunger, but their sorrow, their worry, and their love.  Oh, how happy I was to keep this growing family’s food fresh and cold.

 

Many years passed and there were only two again.  The contents were meager and small; eggs in cardboard containers, milk in cartons and small chops and cuts of meat wrapped in styrofoam trays and clear plastic. 

 

My doors creaked and gaskets had all but dried out.  My vegetable bin was cracked and scarred and I was not defrosted in many, many months.  Then, there was only one and his face was a study in grief.  Where had the woman gone?  I had come to love her sweetness and grace as she rearranged the contents to accommodate leftovers, fruit salads, turkey carcasses, and cheese over these many years.

 

Soon, there was no activity at all.  For many days, I saw no faces, heard no voices, felt no vibrations on the floor from footsteps.  Time passed and I slumbered again, but this time with contents slowly drying, vegetables rotting, and the milk becoming solid and sour.

 

One day, I was opened by a face I had watched grow old, but now looked young and sad.   She shook her head and began to pull out all the old and no longer edible contents, and put them in large green plastic bags, even those long forgotten foodstuffs in my small freezer compartment.  She carefully wiped down my inner walls and removed the grilled shelving.  When she shut the door, I was aware of its finality.  Was this the end for me?  Would I be put to rest with others of my kind?  And what of the old gas stove who stood sentinel with me all these long years and who also served this family for many years preparing the foodstuffs I stored? 

 

But, the next day, I was opened and the young-old face was there again, but with two new faces.  A brief conversation, a handshake and I was soon loaded into an old pickup truck, along with my old friend, the gas stove.  We remained silent for the many miles we traveled as we had no need for discourse, my old friend and I. 

 

 In this home, there are only two, and my contents are meager and small; eggs in cardboard containers, milk in cartons and small chops and cuts of meat wrapped in styrofoam trays and clear plastic.  Then one day, there is more milk, but a different kind.  As the years pass, that is the only constant--milk, in all its various forms. 

 

 

Author's Note

Used Rites of Passage as a writing prompt and intended this to be a parody of The Bridge. The Fridge insisted that I respect the story and so....

Reviews

[emmajoy]

' In this home, there are only two, and my contents are meager and small; eggs in cardboard containers, milk in cartons and small chops and cuts of meat wrapped in styrofoam trays and clear plastic. Then one day, there is more milk, but a different kind. As the years pass, that is the only constant--milk, in all its various forms. '

Repetition is a wonderful hug.. and it made me tear up. There are scenes and dreams, touches and removals, wondering and sadness and more, so much more throughout your wonderful story.

Crazy though it is, you climbed into that essential creature and became an ever vigilant sentry, guardian, muse. comforter and counsellor, plus historian for whatever size family and occasion, night, day, every season glorious or otherwise!

This has to be one of my all time favourite stories in ten years in the cafe! Superb writing, its flow as free and smoth can be. Plus, make the gods understand - it has anamazing heart for something seemingly unemotional.

[Dr. YumnaKay]

I'm not much into reading stories on WC but this had me hooked for some weird reason. I actually like how you describe the 'life' of a fridge. And now I'll have to read your piece which inspired this ;) Interesting read (:

[Ken Simm.]

What a fascinating concept. The lives of a fridge.
I am struck with two thoughts or memories of my own when thinking about fridges I have known. One, I remember the time, when I still drank, coming home about oneish, drunk, and fancying a fry up. There was always a broken egg in a saucer, in the fridge. I got it out and then spent a long time trying to fry half an apricot.
The second one was a thought I had for a Sci Fi story where archeologists had returned to Earth fro a planet and a time far away and attempted to discern what purpose our various machines and home furniture had. It was decided that the fridge was a shrine to a household god of some kind. And in it were kept the various offerings of animal parts and vegetables.
I enjoyed this story immensely Carol. First rate almost whimsical story telling.

[Annette Pisano-Higley]

I will never look at my fridge the same way again! Crazy good, deeply moving, beautifully written story fom the fridge's perspective of life and life's cycles of it's owners. Filled with loving detail and imagery. This fridge feels, and remembers. Love!!

[Carol Cashes]

Archaeologists learn so much from the remains of meals and food storage areas - they will, hundreds of years from now, learn as much about us, not from our cooking fires - but from our Maytags!

[GwenLark]

Such an interesting perspective. Well done!

[Carol Cashes]

This started out to be a parody of a serious piece I wrote called Rites of Passage, or The Bridge, but the story would not be taken lightly. I'm glad you enjoyed it.

[Samuel Dickens]

Oh, the life and times of an icebox--I really enjoyed this. Like pretty much everything, old stuff has such character--clocks, motorcycles, cars, appliances and people. "and begin to pull out..."-- should be "began".

[Carol Cashes]

Begin changed to began. Thanks for reading. I think old things do have stories - imagine the butts an old park bench has known!

[Samuel Dickens]

Sniff-sniff... yeah!

[barleygirl]

Our fridges can often be a revelation of how the house's occupants are thriving or not! You've managed to tell this by describing the obvious yet revealing the hidden. I love your abundant use of vivid details & I love your overall compassionate tone. I think the "milk" theme is interesting & thought-provoking . . . I can't drink milk (allergic -- hives!) but you've reminded me of how it is in most other fridges! *smile* Fondly, Margie

[Carol Cashes]

I don't drink milk either, but not because of any allergies or such, I've just never liked it. But babies and growing children need it, and old men need it with their chocolate chip cookies.

[barleygirl]

Good one! (((HUGS)))

[Stella Armour]

i love personalizing things and so i loved reading this story. I also loved how the fridge and cooker went full circle and back to a new beginning...this is going in my library for sure... wonderful and just my cup of tea ...with milk

[Carol Cashes]

Please read Rites of Passage, it was the inspiration for this piece and my personal favorite "baby". I'm glad you enjoyed this, it was fun to write.

[Stella Armour]

ok... will do

[Jiya]

That's the cycle of human life.
Very well expressed. I loved going through it.