Cold storage

Usage examples of icebox.

I do a lot of canning and I have plenty of room in my new icebox, so I just keep my birdseed and things like that out there.

He took a bottle of San Pasqual Chenin Blanc out of the icebox and poured himself a generous measure.

He congratulated the grandmotherly creator of the inside-out marble mocha whipped cream cake, the vivacious young matron with her brazil nut caramel angel cake, the delicate young man who was so proud of his sour cream chocolate velvet icebox cake, and finally the winner in the teenage class.

When his mother had left him alone in the house in July while she went to spend the summer in Atlantic City, she'd put a roll of bologna in the icebox as well as several cans of soup and sardines and boxes of crackers in the cupboard.

It was a good room, from the outmodedly comfortable chairs to the cases full of erratically and lovingly chosen books, from the battered standard typewriter to the miniature electric icebox, of the type usually employed for baby formula.

The next morning I ambled down to Ruby Bee's, found my favorite bar stool, and warned myself to tread very carefully if I ever again wanted to savor a square of lemon icebox pie.

She put the Mason-jarred goods on the shelves, and the meat and milk in the icebox, and the beet sugar and coarse flour in big cans under the sink.

The only thing in the icebox was a canned martini that tasted like brake fluid.

Then we got ice-cream boxes and stuffed them, poured chocolate syrup over and sometimes strawberries too, then walked around in the kitchens, opened iceboxes, to see what we could take home in our pockets.

I got some cold cuts out of the icebox and dropped them onto Mister's plate.

One humming and shuddering refrigerator that appeared to date from the days when people still called them iceboxes.

In due course, Anne-Marie invited them to have something to eat-coupled with the caveat that she didn't know what was in the icebox and the implied suggestion that Ken should take them all out for dinner.

The Pontchartrain had just about the best icebox pie he had ever tasted.

I tossed my jacket onto the frayed, battered sofa, walked into the kitchen, pulled a beer out of the icebox (I know “refrigerator” is the proper word, but I'm old-fashioned—and besides, this particular machine had been built when iceboxes were all the rage), and walked back to the living room.

Beyond the signpost forest the road led to a house of gray wood with a sagging front porch and in the front yard—and here I mean “sea of weeds” instead of yard as ordinary people might know it—a motley collection of rust-eaten clothes wringers, kitchen stoves, lamps, bed-frames, electric fans, iceboxes, and other smaller appliances was lying about in untidy piles.