Sept. 2026
Helaine Ortmann
Sometimes, even the mundane can be remarkable.
The other day, I decided it was time to clean and reorganize my chest freezer. Yes, in hindsight I wish I had bought an upright self-defrost, but who knew? I had no lived experience to draw on. This was an appliance we did not have at home, and even so my mother managed all those years with a husband who loved to eat, three children, and extended family who happily crowded around our small dining room table at holiday get-togethers and simchas.
I bought my freezer when it became clear that a garden was finally within reach. There were a couple of reasons for this: our once grand 100-year-old maple tree had to be sacrificed (because of disease) revealing a backyard fully exposed to the sun; and, I was due to retire in the coming years leaving me time and capacity to attempt a new hobby.
No mean feat to carry the new purchase down our narrow steep basement steps and through to the corner of the room that would later become my pandemic-era exercise space, the freezer was installed. It soon became a repository for pasta sauces made from our Roma and heirloom tomatoes; vegetable soups cooked with our herbs, celery, carrots, onions, and beans (green and yellow); bags of washed and cut strawberries, peaches and apples bought at local farm stands; as well as crisps, muffins and cakes baked from these gorgeous seasonal fruits. Later, during a heightened period of breadmaking, I added challahs to the rotation, two to four at a time, in anticipation of our sons’ visits home.
Really, what could be more wonderful, during the cold winter months, or anytime, than rummaging through the freezer to find and heat up a pot of homemade tomato or carrot soup; serve a bowl of pasta with fresh marinara or pomodoro sauce; or warm up a sweet peach muffin or strawberry scone at teatime; each as colourful and aromatic as summer itself? The freezer made me feel, not like a natural woman, but like a real balabusta.
As usual, I digress.
Armed only with a container of hot water to give off steam and a reusable microfiber cloth for gentle meditative rubbing, I set myself to the task at hand with all the intention and purpose of a schooled archeologist; excavating the layers of ice that had formed on the inside walls of my chest freezer to find and identify the artifacts of summers past.
My 4’11” frame leaned in deeply, enthused by the systematic and steady progress I was making; but more so exhilarated by the hip hinge I was able to achieve after months of practice in my somatic movement class; a real-life application of knowledge transfer. I couldn’t help but wonder what would happen if I were to fall in. I’d be “in situ,” while my husband, bless him, watched YouTube on the third floor of our house; engrossed in basketball podcasts analyzing the Raptors game of the night before, and videos about how to carve musical instruments using only hand tools. Much to my relief, I did not fall in, and less than two hours later, I declared my afternoon mission complete.
While sorting and reorganizing the freezer contents, I marvelled at the bags of bright yellow cherry tomatoes (the size of jumbo marbles), as vibrant and fresh-looking as the day I picked them. I was less than thrilled however when I unearthed several bags of bread crumbs that I had processed in my Cuisinart; stored as an homage to my mother who taught me it was a sin to throw bread away. I kissed each bag before I emptied it into my food waste bin; just as she would have.
On a lighter note, in preparation for that night’s supper, I pulled out a bag of minestrone soup (circa August 2024), a round challah bedecked with sesame seeds, and a wrapped package of flank steak that turned out to be salmon portions, mislabelled.
For the next three days, I retraced my steps to the basement: to open the freezer, survey the interior and kvell at the new order: herbs and fruit here; soups and sauces there.
Halevai, I have the koach to do it all over again soon. I have two chest freezers.
