By By Cheri Weiss
I’m Frieda the Fridge, the only Jewish appliance in your entire kitchen. And before you say anything, not only do I talk, I also listen to EVERYTHING. I know who eats in this house, who fibs about eating in this house, and who stands in front of me at 2:14 a.m. whispering, “This doesn’t count. I must eat this chopped liver (which I’m about to spread on Ritz crackers) because my doctor says I’m severely anemic.”
I hear it all! Make no mistake. I run this household. Not your Bubbe, not your husband, not that overachieving big macher air-fryer who showed up one Hanukkah acting like he invented healthy cooking — or the alter cocker, burnt-out oven always having a nervous breakdown. Me! I’m the cold, glowing heart of this family — the central hub. Without me? Utter chaos. Cheese mingling freely with meat! Curdled milk! Unlabeled turkey bacon giving Jews unnecessary guilt!
“Remember to get Morty’s suit at the drycleaners for Tuesday.” When will you realize that as the communication hub of the kitchen, I KNOW how to talk? Just give me all the pertinent info and I’ll pass it on to family members verbally.
Then there’s Judah, your notorious teenager. Stands in front of me as if I’m a portal into another dimension. Opens door. Stares. Closes door. Opens again. Repeat. What’s he expecting? A surprise party? “Oh look! A cheesecake appeared since the last time I checked eight seconds ago!” No. It’s the same food. I am not a magician.
Don’t you know G.E. no longer stands for General Electric? G.E. is short for Gentile Energy. Oy! Keep treating me poorly and see what happens during your next power outage. That’s right — they’ll be simultaneous laments of, “Oh, how we miss our Frieda! She was so chill.” As your melted ice cream is no longer kept at the exact emotional support temperature required after a long day of pretending to be a functioning adult.
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