We bought a new refrigerator last year.
Unlike the one we had, this one has an ice-maker. Not the fancy-dancy ice from the door kind (we thought we'd end up with a LOT of water on the floor, since they don't build 'em high enough to be out of the reach of the 'I'll Do It Myself' twins)
but really, having ice cubes? And not having to twist them out - or worse, pick them out with my nails - of the ice cube tray is heaven.
I'm still excited about it every time I get a glass of water.
You wouldn't think such a little thing could wow you - but it does, somehow. Amazing how a bit of water can do that.
The ice outside, though, isn't thrilling me. Oh wait - you've heard we're having a cold snap? That everyone is having a cold snap? Well, I won't talk about the (bitter and soul-less) cold. (At least not too much.)
But the ice. The ice outside. I've almost gone ass-over-teakettle twice now, and R has the first battle wounds - she slid down the sledding hill using her chin as a brake.
One of the men in my parish came to see me at the manse yesterday. He's 96 and stumps around in this weather with studded boots and an ice-pick cane. He's very comfortable being outside, which didn't stop me from watching him set off for home with my heart in my throat.
I like ice. Inside, that is.