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Of Teachers and Refrigerators

  "Just as there are good and bad refrigerators, there are good and bad professors.”

 I read that in the
New York Times. It was part of a student’s response to a “Room for Debate” column. But
frankly, I don’t think that student has seen my refrigerator. In the first place, it is very old. It is very old
because I have to live in an old apartment building where the landlord almost never modernizes. The
landlord almost never modernizes because the rent is controlled and I have an open lease and the
landlord wouldn’t make back his investment, according to modern accounting rules. And modern
accounting rules are set up this way … but never mind, I was talking about my refrigerator.
 It is very old. I hope you have been paying attention and remember that. Because you were saying that
there were good and bad refrigerators just as there are good and bad professors, as if all refrigerators were
the same age, and all professors the same age too, coming from the same manufacturers, and all pretty
much answerable to the same standards. You have to remember that my refrigerator is from another
generation, and seems to have been built in an era before most refrigerators came frost-free, or when frost-
freeing was effective. In any case it frosts up, pretty quickly. After about a month there is an inch of snow
on the top shelf on the freezer and along the sides of all the shelves. And every once in a while there is a
little bit of melted water in the non-freezing refrigerator compartment. Eventually it drips onto the floor
and plants a spot of mould on the linoleum. I don’t know why but maybe the refrigerator is trying to
defrost itself and failing. Personally, I find that cute, although when you get down to the thing as a whole
is pretty ugly – white with tiny steel handles. It is as if my refrigerator were itself a person, trying and
failing, acquiring an individual persona. It almost makes me want to give the refrigerator a name. Mr
Mould, maybe would do. Or Ugly Betty.
 But the thing is, the refrigerator is also very small. It is small because my apartment is small and my
kitchen is small, and both of them are small because, well, it is an old building and I am paying as much
as I can afford in rent. If I could afford more in rent or afford to buy my own place – well, then I would own
a different refrigerator, wouldn’t I? It is kind of sad, when you think about it. For really, my refrigerator isn’
t really bad, for it is doing the best it can. It is just old and small and cheap and it has lasted for more
years than I know yet one day soon it will break down past repair and, in effect, die; my being the one who
owns it and complains about it is pretty much arbitrary.
And meanwhile, think of the smells it has to put up with! The garlic, the onions, the limp brown lettuce,
the rotten mushrooms, the decaying cheese! It’s my fault, really. I don’t buy enough pre-packaged foods. I
insist on fresh. And I let things go to waste. I almost always buy more than I can eat, out of fear that I am
not buying enough. I mean, have you ever gotten up at three in the morning and went to a fridge and
there was nothing to nosh on? And there’s this other problem. Apparently the refrigerator was built before
the produce and cheese compartments were relatively air tight, so you could keep the cheese smells away
from the apples, and the garlic away from the milk. I know that it doesn’t really bother my refrigerator that
it has all these competing smells inside of it, for the refrigerator is not a person and it doesn’t have a nose.
But it bothers me! I open up the fridge and it stinks! And I think to myself, if only I had a better
refrigerator, a newer model, with more features, better bins, no frost, maybe an automatic ice-making
   I worry, though, that you cannot blame my refrigerator for being what it is. After all, if I had gone onto
law school and become a successful lawyer I would probably be living somewhere else and I would
certainly have a better refrigerator with more features, in a larger apartment or maybe even a house with a
yard. And my refrigerator would have a different owner, maybe with fewer fresh ingredients and fewer
other sorts of demands placed upon it. Maybe it would have an owner that liked it. But instead I am a
professor, and this is my life and this is my fridge, which has to put up with my peccadilloes and
grumpiness, for now.        
  Is this good or bad? Well, if the student had attended one of my classes, he might have come upon a
saying repeated in Hamlet: “there is nothing either good or bad but thinking makes it so.” And who am I
to think bad things about my refrigerator? Before I moved in my apartment for years was occupied by an
elderly single woman, who died at about ninety. What must she have thought of that refrigerator? It
probably served her just fine. She probably didn’t even notice the rust on the bottom of the front door
lining – did I mention the rust? She was alone, she was old, she didn’t eat very much, she didn’t have to
keep too many things fresh. I suppose it must have been hard for her to go shopping: the closest
supermarket is a ten minute-walk away, up and down a hill. She probably had friends who helped her.
There is a sprite, elderly fellow in our building now, long since retired, who does odd jobs around the
property just for the sake of having something to do. I bet he helped her out, although I have never asked
him. I am not the nosy kind; for me it is a fine thing for people to keep their secrets to themselves.
 In any case, Christmas is coming on and my wife and I are having people over for a lavish, leisurely
Italian-style Christmas dinner, and our fridge is absolutely stuffed. We have had to jimmy a white bag of
butchers meat (eight slabs of osso buco) into the compartment where the vegetables are kept. I feel for the
carrots, having to support all that animal weight, and soak up the animal smells. (Carrots are as alert to
their environment as most living things – and sad to say, even if their leaves have been chopped off and
they have been washed and bundled into a plastic bag, one on top of the other, the carrots are still alive.) I
worry about the little items that get lost in the clutter, a jar of cornichons, a tube of wasabi. When I need
them, how will I find them? They have been, well, marginalized, shoved off into corners and interstices
among the more important products. In our house, mustard, cheese, butter and yoghurt have pride of
place. Leftover ham has pride of place. The cornichons and wasabi will just have to make do with whatever
space we can provide for them. Valuable though they are, I might add. Just because you’re marginal, that
doesn’t mean that you don’t belong! Small as our refrigerator is, we will make room for you! And we will
fetch you when your services are required!
 Every now and then I daydream about having a big, luxurious modern kitchen, with an island in the
middle of it just for cutting things up, topped with marble or hardwood, and a fine gas-run stove (we are
stuck with a narrow electric model), and, of course, a big brushed-steel two-vertical-door refrigerator. I
think about the opulence and the convenience. I think about the shiny surfaces, the glimmers of light. I
think about the cornichons having just as much space as the mustard. Everything would be in its place,
and every place would be the right kind of space. Inequality would be banished from the main storage
facility for my food. Or actually, no: the most important ingredients, like milk and butter, would still be in
the most reachable of places, high up, easy to see. Other ingredients would have their place, and fine
places too, but still, they would not have pride of place. Anyone who opened up my refrigerator would
know my priorities from the outset. No matter what kind of refrigerator I ever have, the same principles of
order will still follow. It’s all about me, I guess, isn’t it?
Of course, if I have gone onto law school instead of pursuing a career first in bohemianism and then in
education, the question would be moot. I would not only have a different refrigerator: I would have
different priorities. Inevitably, you are the person you have made yourself into, and which circumstances
have made you into, and when the making changes from either inside or outside, everything else changes
along with it. But I like my life pretty much as it is, even if it comes with spots of mould on the floor, and
with my carrots oppressed under the weight of a dead leg of veal. And I can’t imagine what it would be like
to go to a showroom these days and go shopping for a new one.
Robert Appelbaum