My heart sank yesterday when I stepped out into our enclosed garage and noticed a stream of light running the full length of the refrigerator door. Had we retrieved something from the extra fridge earlier that morning and just missed closing it tight? Unfortunately, it quickly became apparent that this was not a recent mistake, as a large block of cheese on the top shelf was warm to the touch. The door had been open all night, at least ten hours, and the small thermometer clipped onto the top shelf registered nearly 70° F. Ugh. 

In that moment, I became the father in A Christmas Story in the scene where he wailed about all the favorite foods that he wouldn’t be able to enjoy after the neighbor dogs attacked the roast turkey. You see, I had just gone to Costco a few days prior to this debacle to restock on our favorite expensive cheeses, and I had placed them on the top shelf of the fridge. My plan was to grate the one-and-a-half pound wedge of Parmagiano-Reggiano together with the one-pound wedge of Pecorino Romano, and we would have a hefty bucket of our beloved “Parm-Romano Blend” to get us through all the pizzas, grilled caesar salads and quick pasta dishes that I would make during summer. I had been fantasizing ways to use the huge double block of feta before its early November expiration, and I’d finally make one of my culinary bucket list items, a whipped feta dip. And there was a mellow cheddar aged in pale ale that had caught my eye. That would be a winner on an appetizer platter, and wouldn’t it also rock a macaroni and cheese? Sigh, I’ll never know. 

A few things I won’t be making 😕

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Not only were the specialty cheeses no longer cold, they had virtually cooked under the constant heat of the incandescent light bulb, and smelly, oily liquid dripped from the corners of all the packages. If I could have salvaged any of it, I would have. It was easily $70 worth of cheese. For someone who searches out volume bargains and plans so carefully with food, this was a gut punch.

On the bright side, the rest of the refrigerator’s residents seem to be mostly OK. A jug of buttermilk in the door was a loss, but it was almost gone anyway. My vermouths would be fine. On lower shelves, an array of drinks and cocktail mixers that don’t technically need cold storage. A few fruits and veggies that I picked up Saturday at the farmers’ market would be used quickly enough that they would not be a loss. Even my sourdough starter, Pete, is expected to make a full recovery.

But, the cheeeeese. 😩

I imagined what my frugal grandmother would do in such a situation. She’d probably cuss, as I did (one of these days, I’ll share her favorite “bad” word, which she used with bold intention when circumstances warranted), and then she’d put on a pick-up-the-pieces attitude, scan the pantry and pull something together for dinner. She would not let the mistake define her. 

Onward.