The ice maker in the fridge has been dead for oh, two weeks now. It just sits there, in the cold and the darkness, doing absolutely nothing. At least once or twice in the past, it fixed itself, a miracle if there ever was one. But not this time. No more miracles. I know, in an earlier post I had promised to smash the cursed device with a large hammer into tiny, tiny pieces with the theme from Apocalypse Now playing in the background, but there was an another delay in the delivery of the replacement. This time, of our choosing, not Whirlpool. The Missus claims she couldn't deal with a Friday Thanksgiving meal and refrigerator swapping on the same day.
In the meantime, there was that nagging little problem of no ice for the toddy, nothing for the evening spooker, no frozen cubes on which to splash a wee bit of bourbon as the sun goes down. Two options; buy it by the bag at ridiculous prices and then have to chip it apart into manageable chunks as needed or use ice trays. Ice trays, remember those? And wonder of wonder, we had three of them, probably saved as mementos of our youth.
Fill em' up. Wait a while. ICE! No gears to jam, no valves to stick, no switches with dirty contacts, no thermocouples to fail, no heater element to quit, no nothing. Just dump the ice in the bucket, repeat. The simplicity was fascinating, calming in fact. Nothing to worry about, nothing all, just let nature take its course.
Hello, Whirlpool? Stick your product where the sun don't shine. Who needs it?