High, murky grey sky. The sun a weak spot of light in the dark grey sky. Rhododendrons in red and salmon are colorized spots in an otherwise dull landscape. An old picture brought to life. It is vaguely dreary.

It is a good day to clean the freezer.

I’m not a hoarder, though I do tend to buy a few “extras” as backup for a rainy day. I keep essentials stocked against a financial shortfall, a habit I developed in my early days when pay checks were sporadic and varied. I once lived on bread, baked beans, and coffee for two weeks between paychecks. Not a diet I want to repeat.

Having a bit extra appeals to the pioneer and Boy Scout in me. Like a $5 bill stashed in the back of my wallet, it affords a sense of security. Occasionally, I need to scrutinize my hoard and clear severely outdated items, many of which have nearly disappeared in the freezers perma-frost. As indeterminate lumps along the floor and walls, they have begun to form an igloo of ice that has overtaken half of the freezer space.

I tend to put freezer bags of leftovers into the freezer unlabeled, confident that I will recognize them in a few days. I don’t. Through the frozen plastic, freezer burned vegetables and blocks of brown ice crystals hold the secret of their origins. They all plunk into a tub of bits for the garbage.

Identifiable, are two half gallon bags of blueberries, once freshly picked from my blueberry plants in the backyard. We haven’t lived in that house for a year. I set them aside anyway, thinking that simmered in sugar water for a few hours, I can salvage them as pancake syrup. Beneath the berries seem to be two or three packages of bacon. I say seem because they are totally covered in ice. My Sherlockian power of reasoning has concluded that, given the narrow, flat nature of the ice mound, it must be bacon. I leave them entombed in ice for the day when I will actively defrost the freezer. Today’s effort has become more like an effortless treasure hunt than a cleaning project. Spring days are not rich in commitment.

On the freezer door are boxes of fruit juice popsicles, hairy with frost, slightly deformed from thawing while I’ve spent the occasional hour looking for culinary inspiration with the door held open. I select one that is either red or orange. It is difficult to be sure but, it is spring, so it doesn’t really matter. It will be one less thing in the freezer.

I dump the frozen blueberries into a small pan with sugar and water. I leave it on a burner on low. Not only have I cleaned the freezer, but I’ve made syrup too. (Spring is open to self-delusion.)

With a sense of accomplishment, I settle into my chair with my current book.

It turned out that once unwrapped, the flavor of the popsicle was just as indeterminate as the color. That’s Spring.

Blessings

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