FOR MOST OF my adult life I have regarded computer meltdown as the worst – the most aggravating and time-consuming – of the domestic mechanical crises. But last week our little household suffered sudden refrigerator death, and I now rank that at or near the top.

Actually, refrigerator deaths are seldom sudden. They only seem that way, when you get up on Sunday morning and swing open the door for the carton of milk and are met with a faceful of warm, humid, slightly fetid air – like the breeze from a dubious beach on some not-well-maintained tropical island. You remember, with horror, the strange buzzing noise the compressor was making the night before. You didn't think it was the death rattle, because the machine soon quieted down. But then, death is quiet – and is the culmination of years of leaks, gasps, and other such paranormal phenomena.

Calls to service people who charge $95 for a two-minute inspection. Death certificate issues. You are left with a large carcass, not unlike that of a beached whale, and the urgent need of a replacement. What will fit, what will look good, what will it cost, who has one? It is amazing to discover that, while big appliance stores like Sears and Cherin's have floors full of refrigerators, the only ones that will do won't be available for two or three weeks. That's a long time to be living out of a leaky ice chest.

Still, the news isn't all bad. Sometimes somebody does have a suitable article in stock and can – and does – bring it the next day, as promised. Our crew even hauled the old beast downstairs, to a kind of temporary morgue in the basement, where it will wait until some outfit or other comes to take it away. It had been cleaned out before its successor arrived, of course, and its contents were a not particularly pleasant marvel, for lurking at the back of every refrigerator are all sorts of stinky monsters: old jars full of ... fruit in cognac? Forgotten mayo – something not to be handled before donning a safe suit. Batteries in their Ziploc bags, awaiting the call. At the bottom of one of the vegetable bins, some fossilized scallions.

It struck me, in performing this triage, that we were overrefrigerated. As with freeway capacity, use will rise to fill all available space. If we weren't sure, we stuck it in the refrigerator. But the new one is smaller – fewer nooks and crannies, shelves and trays, and what have you. We can no longer afford to be indiscriminate. We have to be – yes! – more cold-blooded.