Yes, warm milk is a traditional beddy-bye indulgence.
But even if I were to want a less chilly mug of the good stuff, I would want it to be so because I had warmed it personally. Not because it came out of the fridge that way.
Over the last week that creamy beverage had been getting closer and closer to room temp. The thermostat was maxed out, and it just got warmer. And the ice cream got softer.
So yesterday we packed all refrigerated items into insulated and ice-filled boxes, awaiting the delivery of a new electric ice-box from the good folks at Sears.
When you live where the sky don’t snow, the least you can do is give yourself ice for Christmas...
The kid to deliver our 50-year-old Norge's replacement turned out to be the friend of a friend, and seems like a solid guy. I was, unfortunately, on my way out at that moment. Then again, I seldom just sit and bother people yakking.
And now a sturdy-looking white pillar sits in the kitchen, encompassing the pleasures of food and drink. The shelves and such on the inside are all transparent, like something out of Minority Report or some other future-flick.
And you know, this the first time since 1994 that a refrigerator light has come on in my home. If, that is, you don't count the four months living with a minifridge in Europe.