Baby Love

Our refrigerator is a wee thing that dates back to the Eisenhower administration. When a friend bought herself a sparkling new model in which no one had ever spilled grape juice, I begged for her cute little castoff, which totally fits our farmhouse kitchen and is totally impractical otherwise. She was only too happy to hand over her ancient appliance. Our fridge has one door, rounded corners, and stands barely five feet high. It opens with a quick pull of the large silver handle centered on the door, and it slams shut no matter how quietly you try to close it. I love this fridge; inside it, I crowd bottles, cartons, and tortillas together, trying to convince myself that it isn’t too small. I cut the stalks off of leeks to make them fit and strategically place lettuce as far away from the freezer compartment as possible, so it doesn’t turn black with frost.

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