The Fridge

The sound a mechanical hum echoing off walls

with a gentle crack or two during the day,

yet somehow always thunderous at night:

random groans and cracks booming throughout the house.

Eggshell white for forty-some years,

ageless if not for the scars –

scuff marks from children scratching for the cookie jar strategically placed at the top,

fingerprints a smudge that scrubbed off

but managed to leave an impression.

Frigid to the touch,

we huddled at its feet all-year-round

pressed against the solid lines and steel covering,

reaching for cool comfort and

a fraction of its calm.

Permission to peek inside was a great privilege –

five levels crammed to the top with every kind of delicacy there is,

from freshly baked Barbari bread

to boxes of pistachio-smothered baklava

and cream puffs the size of my fist.

All the contents were carefully catalogued through a system only she knew

with a hidden inventory kept under lock and key.

She brings it out during the nightly check-up and update –

a thick leather bound ledger in pristine condition,

the chocolaty leather as supple and soft as ever

with pages that crinkle like her skin and smell like her lilac scented perfume.

For all her military-grade security,

Grandma shared her trove with those intrepid enough to ask

and spread fear in the souls of those greedy enough to try without:

stories of getting locked inside,

squeezed, compressed, and pulverized like a can of paste

never to be seen again.

Sharing a wall with her room on the second floor,

the ancient fridge came with her dowry –

it spanned from floor to ceiling

looming over everyone,

with doors so heavy that two people were required to open it.

When she needed to retrieve something

Grandma recruited one of us grandchildren as her little helper,

promising to surprise us with some awesome dessert as a reward –

who was to be the day’s chosen one became quite the debate as our numbers increased,

generally resolved by an impromptu rock-paper-scissors tournament.

Opening it was quite the adventure –

the doors unhinged like the yawning mouth of some snow-monster,

breath a visibly icy blast unrelentingly pouring out,

but always worth the treasure I was retrieving.

The celebratory tea-parties were delicious

and groggy,

with the warmth of the kitchen thawing me out

as I dozed off to the sound of grandma humming

as she began to cook.

It was the rhythm of some ancient Persian poem or another,

I don’t recall exactly.

There were different tones for different dishes,

forecasting whether it will be a day of

sumac coated kabobs nestled in a hill of saffron-tinted rice,

green aash overflowing with reshteh noodles,

or fesenjan permeating the air with the fragrance of chicken

drenched in tangy pomegranate and finely ground walnut sauce.

My favorite were the days Grandma baked raisin cookies.

A visit to the fridge was required for those ingredients,

for she naturally made everything from scratch –

only the best for her family,

and of course, herself.