Defrosting the Fridge

They say modern Americans have lost their sense of adventure.

So enervated by television and the easy, rumbling grace of our SUVs, they say, that we've sunken into ourselves. We've become pale little blobby baby-people, sucking down Diet Oreos and idly whining about our superficial fears and prejudices.

"They" have obviously never seen us defrost a refrigerator.

Defrosting refrigerator isn't a chore. It's a battle. Human enterprise versus super-dense walls of ice, inches deep if you've put it off for a year or two. The beauty of the scenario is twofold; one, it's good versus evil. Evil ice is making it harder for your fridge to keep your food cold. You, the crusading force of good, need to liberate the cooling coils. Two, time is on your side. The laziest man on Earth could just stuff some towels into the base of the fridge after clearing of food, and unplug the thing. Days would pass, but the job would get done.

But that's not the campaign we've signed up for. We're taking hot water to the front lines.

At first, the situation is daunting. You put a couple small pans of water in the frozen quagmire, and have little to show for it other than shavings. The ice is intimidating — you can see the ghostly form of the heating element looming up through the ice like some paleolithic hiker permanently entombed in an Alpine glacier.

Then you start to make progress, getting a grip on the larger campaign, confronting the vulnerable bottom, the irritating overhang, the intriguing sides, and the awe-inspiring three-inch thick ice pack wrapped around the cooling element on top.

You put in a wide, shallow, massive pan that takes up most of the freezer area. It melts much of the floor ice on contact, and the sides buckle promisingly.

Things get fun. Frozen water comes off in scoops. And as you shuttle handfuls of compacted ice shavings from the fridge to the sink, you may even begin referring to yourself, in the third person, as "The Ice Badger."

[girlfriend deposits large block of ice in sink]

You: The Ice Badger likes that!

Girlfriend: And what does The Ice Badger say?

You: RRRRR

But after the first glorious hour, the illusion of progress hits the wall of reality — the ice you've been eagerly scraping away in shavings and platelets was just the cosmetic overcoating. The real ice, despite 60+ minutes of exposure to your biggest, hottest pan, is stubbornly clinging to your cooling element as tenaciously as ever. Maybe more tenaciously. You can't be sure, but it seems possible that it's actually increased in size.

Hang on. Keep fighting the fight. Before you know it, you'll being holding a massive piece of fallen ice aloft, trophy-style, as Link holds aloft a newly discovered piece of Triforce.

"Oh yeah! You don't like that, do you! You're my bitch, refrigerator!"

You survey the surreal mini-tableau. Another pan of nearly boiling water goes in, and the hot calories battle it out with the frozen mass. Water streams off the roof like condensation streaming off of stalagmites in a lava-heated cavern.

The spectacle is awesome.

Further challenges lie in wait.

Such as when the dam of ice blocking you from taking out the freezer drainage tray finally lets go of the metal.

And when the ice dam breaks apart.

And when you finally pull out the shattered pieces and release the water-filled tray, allowing you to pour nigh a half a gallon of chilled liquid into your fragment-strewn sink.

And, of course, there's the heart-stopping action of 10 pounds of super-dense ice suddenly dropping from the top of the freezer moments after you've removed your pan of hot water.

A close one!

And then, the anticlimax. Two of three hours of letting the ice melt quietly away from the cooling element, and — but for a well-needed fridge scrubbing — you're done.

Americans gone soft? Hell no. In the immortal words of John Paul Jones, we have not yet begun to defrost.

— James Norton (jrnorton@flakmag.com)

— photo by Becca Dilley (becca@beccadilley.com)