Maybe the question to Tom Barratt
shouldn’t be what’s in
your
fridge;
maybe to him the question — the exclamatory question — should be what’s your
fridge!?
For Tom, who has worked at Whistler
as a landscape architect for what seems like centuries but really is only a
couple of decades, recently had to buy a new one. Not that the former fridge
broke. Rather that it was about to shatter his nerves.
The old Amana used to sound like a
rocket taking off. Given Tom’s bedroom is but a few short paces from the
galley-style kitchen, which faces the living and dining rooms in an
open-plannish kind of way, one can easily imagine the need for a fridge capable
of fulfilling its mandate without unsettling the owner in the midst of a
tranquil sleep, a good bit of roots music, or dinner conversation.
The problem was fitting one into the
30-inch opening allotted when his house was built back in the early ’90s, for
in our strange relentless search for all things bigger and fatter, most fridges
now are 36 inches wide or more.
And so the search was on. The
solution: a Liebbher Premium NoFrost from Austria. Tall, slim, elegant and
technologically smart.
“It’s one of the best-designed things
I’ve ever seen,” says Tom. “It’s too much.”
This too-much fridge has baskets for
storing wine bottles properly. A narrow shelf is perfect for skinny packages or
those little containers that always seem to wiggle their way to the back of the
fridge, never to be found again until their contents are untenable. Another
shelf is designed for tall bottles that won’t fit anywhere except here, in this
barely muttering, whisper-quiet Liebbher Premium NoFrost.
The transparent crisper drawers at
waist level let you see everything inside and below. In the freezer, three
additional drawers are handy for finding blueberries for pancakes. Or single
servings of pepperonata sauce he learned to make in Italy at Umberto’s. Or soup
stock from Capers so he can make a big batch of soup (the thought of which
unleashes a major perturbance over the fact that Whole Foods, which bought
Capers, closed the original Capers store in Dundarave on Marine Drive, which
used to be so handy for Whistlerites and other loyal customers, including
seniors in the neighbourhood, who now confront its papered-over windows instead
of organic oatmeal and yogurt).
The Liebbher is so beautiful that
when he first got it, he would buy beer just so he (or his pals) could open it.
And all this from someone not usually
prone to such effusiveness about appliances, kitchen or otherwise, given he’s
never even owned a microwave oven, or “nuker” as he calls them.
But on to the elegant fridge shelves
themselves, and some irony: “I’m amazed at what some people store. And here I
have this beautiful fridge and it’s probably only a quarter or a third full,”
he says apologetically, swinging open the door. What he has on hand could be
considered Spartan or very continental, depending on your point of view.
Tom shops every second day, sometimes
every day, for groceries. He does so when he’s out and about in the village
doing this and that, seeing his pals, running errands, hanging out. Like people
do in Europe. This can be a terrific antidote to cabin fever, especially when
you live alone and work at home, as he does.
“Oh yeah,” he says with a laugh.
“Sometimes going to Nesters can be the big event of the day!” But it has its
practicality, too.
“I think day-to-day shopping is the
most cost-effective way to do it,” he says. “If you’re buying in bulk or volume
I imagine you might do better if you have a family of five people. But when
you’re single and you buy a head of lettuce, you might as well throw half of it
away as soon as you get home.”
So after he’s done the interview for
this article, he’ll head down to Nesters Market, where he does the bulk of his
shopping, although locally he checks out IGA and The Grocery Store for certain
things, too. And he’ll buy some salmon, some broccoli and small potatoes to
roast — just enough for that night’s meal.
Everything he buys will fit in a
carrying basket: Take that, Costco and Wal-Mart. If you see him with a push
cart it’s a tip-off he’s having a big dinner party that night.
But for now, the Liebbher is
essentially under-utilized, as they say in human resource departments,
safeguarding a jar of plum chutney and red pepper jelly his sister-in-law made
from a family recipe; a bottle of Quail’s Gate Pinot Blanc; Gerolsteiner
sparkling water; Bremner’s blueberry juice from Surrey that he mixes with the
Gerolsteiner; Nancy’s yogurt; organic mixed baby greens; some Czechovar and
Warsteiner beer; a bag of organic carrots for juicing; some celery (non-organic
since it looked fresher that the organic); Avalon and soy milk; black raspberry
spread; parmesan cheese; maple syrup; free-range organic eggs; and unsalted
butter.
That’s it — no meat (he rarely cooks
it at home and only eats it once in a while). And no fruit, other than things
like local berries at this time of year (he’s been reading Dr. Jonn Matsen’s
book,
Eating Alive II
).
The only time the Liebbher
might
get its belly filled is when Tom throws one of his dinner
parties.
“I’ll do a big one — a dozen people,
the full nine yards — about every second month. And I cook. I tell people don’t
bring anything, unless you really want to. I get ready to a certain point,
about half an hour beforehand, and then I make everybody pitch in. People
always say, what can I do, so I tell them,” he says.
And they love it.
“The worst thing at a dinner party is
you arrive, then everybody sits there and talks, guzzling wine on an empty
stomach, and the dinner is on a barbecue and this and that, and it all comes
out at once. Uck, it’s terrible. Because people don’t participate. You need
them milling around, doing stuff.
“As long as people are chatting and
putting on CDs and there’s stuff for them to graze on for an hour or so,
they’re happy. Then you get them seated, put on the right tune, and the
atmosphere is electric.”
Even the fridge won’t interrupt.
Glenda Bartosh is an award-winning
freelance writer now looking askance at her Amana.
