Yesterday I blogged about the yukky smell in my kitchen that I eventually worked out wasn’t rancid baby-vomit but a pint of double cream that had spilled into the reservoir behind and under the integrated fridge, inaccessible by definition.
The idea of a fridge reservoir is to catch the condensation that forms at the back of the fridge, which is then evaporated by a heating element so there is never any need to empty or clean it. And the idea of one whole pint of double cream heading into the reservoir, along with God-knows-how-much condensation, was quite a queasy thought.
I had sprayed a degreasing agent down the tiny hole at the back of the fridge that feeds the reservoir, but the smell was just as bad this morning. Despite, or because of, the physio signing me off six weeks early, just the day before, in recognition of my ace progress since my shoulder op, I refused to risk a relapse by dragging and lifting a heavy fridge even by an inch. I emptied it of food and shelves, and that was all the lifting I agreed to do. Reinforcements were therefore summonsed in the form of two unsuspecting neighbours, tempted by the offer of homemade flapjacks.
Once in the kitchen, Mr Neighbour wrinkled his nose. Mrs Neighbour didn’t - made of sterner stuff, obviously. Hubby had already unscrewed the relevant bits that theoretically would allow him and Mr N to pull the fridge out of the cabinetry, but it wouldn’t come forward; they could however push it back a little. As Hubby and Mr N scratched their heads, I suggested that as the fridge could move backwards, there couldn’t be any screws attaching it to anything, so something must be blocking the forward movement. Mrs N nodded in agreement. Our menfolk looked at us disdainfully.
After another five minutes puffing and sweating, they stopped for a rest and I, who had been watching thoughtfully all the while, stepped forward and prised a seal off the top of the fridge to allow it to move forward.
Ahem.
And move forward it did, not as heavy as expected, out of the cabinet and dropped, sorry, lifted neatly onto the floor. Mrs N looked behind the fridge and held her nose. NOW she was freaked out. A reservoir about the size of a medium-sized baking dish was chock full of the most vile-looking, vile-smelling clotted-cream substitute anyone could ever imagine.
While the three of them tucked into tea and flapjacks, I got to work with a series of spoons, little ladles, a gravy-pipette and sponges to remove as much as I could. Then I carefully manoeuvred the reservoir away from its secure perch so I could give it a jolly good clean in very hot water, Fairy liquid and bicarb.
Once I’d re-positioned the reservoir, we checked that the fridge would still work and that I hadn’t disturbed any electric connections, then the men reversed the pulling-out process to push the fridge back in, I reversed the shelf and food-moving process, and we were home and dry.
There was still a faint vomit-smell in the air however, so I lit a fragrant candle to see us through until the smell of Saturday supper being cooked (chicken paprika à la Delia) could take over.
There was one problem with the chicken; the final flourish was supposed to be a marbled effect of sour cream, but I’d forgotten to buy any, and Hubby quipped that we’d just got rid of some. Ha bloody Ha.
And there’s another problem; now that I know how to get at the reservoir to clean it, and how many cobwebs build up at the back of fridges, my OCD has kicked in and I’ve put a note in my diary for Hubby and Mr N to extract the fridge for a good clean in six-months’ time.
Men will do anything for a flapjack.
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