One of the things my husband likes to do is to cook all the sausages in the packet, wrap the uneaten remainders in foil and then leave them in the fridge. After about a month, I casually ask him what he plans to do with the sausages. His inevitable reply is “Oh yes. They should be ready now”, after which he puts them in the bin.
Recently, however, I’ve had to concede that at least the sausages fit in a bin – unlike the deep freezer, that is.
The sad and sorry story of the deep freezer’s demise goes something like this: our washing machine died in the arse on the first day of the school holidays, as washing machines are prone to do because they are Satan’s white goods of choice. When the guy came to look at the washing machine, the deep freezer got accidentally unplugged and, because I was out of the house for the weekend (and therefore wasn’t having to retrieve items from the freezer’s depths Every. Five. Minutes), my husband didn’t realise the error for a number of days. By which time, most of the once-frozen contents of the freezer were on their way to being well and truly “ready”.
My husband was philosophical about it. We’d been thinking of decommissioning the deep freezer anyway, so now was as good a time as any, he reasoned.
I was less philosophical and more shouty about it, mostly since the task of cleaning out the stupid thing fell upon me. It must be said, though, that I worked swiftly, without complaint (much). But because I’m what’s technically known as a ‘short arse’, I could only clean it out to a point. Alas, those rogue fish fingers and pools of melted ice cream scunge lining the bottom surface were just out of my reach. The only way I could possibly finish the job was either to lower my body in head first, using an elaborate system of levers and pulleys, OR to pull the whole thing onto its side and crawl in like some kind of dog. Neither was an attractive prospect.
My husband, seeing my problem, gallantly announced “Don’t worry about that! I’ll deal with it this afternoon.”
Of course, over two weeks have now passed and the freezer remains untouched. I think my husband is waiting until the micro ecosystem inside is “ready” and the microbes have evolved enough to have discovered penicillin and be able to kill themselves.
For my part, I am growing increasingly nervous. It’s like a time capsule gone terribly wrong and I’m worried that when it finally is opened, it will be just like that scene from Raiders Of The Lost Ark when the Nazis open the ark and all get melty faces. Who knows what horrors it will unleash? I mean, for one thing, my husband could end up like Indiana Jones with a mid-life critical earring and a wife 25 years his junior. Oh, the horror.