Freezer Ice

Yesterday was frozen pizza day at last, and was greeted with much celebration from my teenage son who requested pizza every day since I brought it home. But as I pulled the boxes out of the sleek, stainless steel contraption that houses our perishable items, I began remembering my childhood.

When I was a kid, freezer ice was Mom's enemy in an ongoing war with a not-so-modern appliance. She would - on a regular, tick-tock clockwork basis - remove all goodies (firmly ensconced in layers of plastic wrap and aluminum foil and carefully labeled in black water-proof ink) from the freezer that hovered at the top of the fridge. These items were piled neatly across the counter - the better to make a quick re-entry, my dear - before the freezer itself was attacked.

The first wave included trays of hot water which, when placed in the dark, frozen cave, brought forth rolls of fog rivaling those seen in an old black-and-white version of The Hound of the Baskervilles. This steam engulfed my mother's face as she leaned in for hand-to-hand combat armed with an ice pick or metal spatula. As she chiseled away at the frozen tundra, great chunks of ice fell in an avalanche of sound. Occasionally Mom called a temporary hiatus to the battle and tossed these icebergs into the nearby sink.

In the summer, my brother and I would swoop in to gather the frozen tendrils before prancing out the sliding glass door to the backyard with a "Don't keep running in and out!" resounding in our ears. Here we slurped up the ice greedily, hoping to get back in for a second round before it all melted. As the fragments disappeared through our fingers, dripping their relief on toes burning in the Oklahoma sun, we pelted them at each other, flailed our arms wildly to create a cool rain, and licked our fingers as we opened the door to begin our next retrieval mission.

By this time, Mom had conquered the task and steam no longer billowed from the dragon's yawning mouth. As she returned the bundles of lasagna, fried chicken, and cinnamon rolls to the freezer, we gathered up the remains of the dragon's teeth from the sink and scampered back to the yard to resume our play.

Thankfully, I don't have to face the menace of freezer ice. Still, I wonder sometimes if my son is missing out on the dramatic simplicity of growing up before technology ran our lives and our households.