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Sometimes late at night, about eleven p.m. or midnight, I get a feeling in my stomach. It's a little bit burny and there is an occasional rumbling. My tummy is saying "feed me, feed me." I know where to go when I am so hungry: The refrigerator.
My Grandmother remembers when she was a very small child her family had an icebox; their family was among the last people in the neighborhood to have one. An iceman comes every few days and he placed a large block of ice in one of the compartments and this is how food stayed cold and hopefully fresh. Now I am on the way to the kitchen and to our very large, tall, almond colored, two-door refrigerator.
This refrigerator does not need ice, it makes ice, and behind that freezer door I can find ice cream. Some days it's vanilla or strawberry and on other days its chocolate. There are shelves inside the door and one large shelf with a big bin that pulls out from under the shelf. Today there is nothing in the freezer but bread, too bad, no ice cream. I close the freezer door, which takes up about one third of the bottom of the refri
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