From three-year-old venison to mystery fish wrapped in newspaper, peek inside a Midwestern freezer and discover a frozen museum of family memories, good intentions, and enough rhubarb to survive the apocalypse.
Growing up in Boston, my freezer was pretty straightforward. Ice cream, frozen vegetables, maybe some leftover soup. Simple stuff. So when I moved to Austin and started dating someone from Wisconsin, I got my first real glimpse into the mysterious world of Midwest freezers.
I'll never forget opening her freezer for the first time. It was like discovering an archaeological site. There were bags within bags, mysterious foil-wrapped packages, and things I couldn't even identify. When I asked about the plastic container filled with what looked like butter, she casually said, "Oh, that's just my mom's cookie dough from Christmas." It was July.
That relationship taught me a lot about Midwest culture, but nothing prepared me for the freezer situations I'd encounter when visiting friends throughout Illinois, Michigan, and Minnesota. These freezers tell stories. They're time capsules. They're survival bunkers prepared for nuclear winter.
After years of observing this phenomenon, I've compiled the most baffling items that seem to be standard issue in every Midwestern freezer. If you didn't grow up there, prepare to be confused.
1. An entire deer (in various stages of butchering)
You haven't truly experienced a Midwest freezer until you've reached for ice and grabbed a frozen deer leg instead. My buddy from Michigan has what he calls "the meat freezer" in his garage. It's exclusively for venison from his annual hunting trips.
The weird part? He'll have meat from three years ago that he's "saving for a special occasion." What occasion requires three-year-old deer meat? I still don't know. But every Midwesterner I've met treats their venison stash like it's gold bullion. They know exactly which package came from which deer, which year, and probably what that deer's hopes and dreams were.
The organization system is incomprehensible to outsiders. White butcher paper with cryptic Sharpie markings like "Buck 2019 backstrap" or "Doe tenderloin - Jim's." Who's Jim? Why does Jim's deer get special designation? These are questions you learn not to ask.
2. Sweet corn from 2017
Midwesterners have a relationship with sweet corn that borders on religious. When corn season hits, they don't just buy a few ears. They buy bushels. Then they spend entire weekends shucking, blanching, and cutting corn off the cob to freeze.
The result? Bags upon bags of corn kernels, each meticulously labeled with the year. But here's where it gets weird. They never actually use all of it. There's always that one bag from several years ago buried in the back, covered in freezer burn, that they refuse to throw away because "it's still good."
I once watched a friend's mom pull out corn from 2017 to make a casserole. When I questioned the vintage, she looked at me like I was insane. "It's frozen," she said, as if that explained everything. In the Midwest, frozen corn apparently has the shelf life of uranium.
3. Rhubarb (so much rhubarb)
Before experiencing Midwest culture, I thought rhubarb was something you occasionally saw at fancy restaurants. Turns out, every Midwesterner has a rhubarb plant that produces approximately 400 pounds of stalks each summer.
Their solution? Chop it all up and freeze it. The problem? Nobody actually uses that much rhubarb. Ever. So it accumulates, year after year, in gallon-sized bags that take up precious freezer real estate.
Ask them what they're planning to make with it, and you'll get vague responses about pies and crisps that never materialize. It's like they're preparing for a future where rhubarb becomes currency. The commitment to keeping it "just in case" is admirable and completely irrational.
4. Mystery fish from "that one good day on the lake"
Every Midwestern freezer contains at least three packages of fish wrapped in newspaper or freezer paper, labeled only with the type of fish and a date. The stories behind these packages are always epic.
"Oh, that's from when Uncle Bob caught those huge walleye on Lake Michigan." When was that? "Must've been... 2018? Maybe 2019?" The fish remains frozen in perpetuity, too special to eat but taking up space that could be used for literally anything else.
The reverence for these fish packages is something to behold. They're not just food. They're trophies. Memories. Proof that one perfect fishing day actually happened.
5. Homemade cookie dough (enough to supply a bakery)
Midwestern moms have this compulsion to make cookie dough in industrial quantities. Not to bake immediately, mind you. To freeze. For emergencies.
What constitutes a cookie emergency? Apparently everything. Someone's coming over? Cookie emergency. Tuesday? Cookie emergency. The sheer volume suggests they're preparing for a scenario where they need to produce 200 cookies with zero notice.
The variety is impressive too. Chocolate chip, peanut butter, snickerdoodles, sugar cookies. All portioned into neat little balls, frozen on sheets, then transferred to bags. It's organized chaos that would make a professional bakery jealous.
6. Bags of random berries from "picking adventures"
Midwesterners cannot pass a berry bush without picking every single berry and freezing them. Blackberries from the side of the road? Frozen. Mulberries from that tree in the park? Frozen. Serviceberries that nobody outside the Midwest has even heard of? You bet they're frozen.
Each bag represents a story about a family picking adventure, usually involving mosquito bites and someone getting lost. They'll keep these berries for years, occasionally using a handful for pancakes, but mostly just moving them around to access other things.
The emotional attachment to these berries is real. Suggesting they toss the crystallized bag from 2015 is like asking them to throw away photo albums.
7. Cheese (bought in bulk from Wisconsin)
Even if they don't live in Wisconsin, every Midwesterner knows someone who does, and that person is their cheese dealer. They'll make special trips or have coolers shipped containing obscene amounts of cheese.
We're not talking about a few blocks. We're talking about enough cheese to survive a lactose apocalypse. Cheese curds, blocks of cheddar aged various amounts, string cheese by the case. It's all carefully rationed in the freezer, even though freezing fundamentally changes the texture of cheese.
Point this out, and they'll insist it tastes exactly the same. It doesn't. But the principle of having Wisconsin cheese on hand at all times supersedes minor concerns about texture.
8. Leftovers from every holiday meal since 2015
Finally, the most baffling item: ancient leftovers from holiday meals that have achieved protected status. That turkey from Thanksgiving 2019? Still there. Ham from Easter 2020? Absolutely.
These aren't being saved for any particular purpose. They've transcended food and become artifacts. Nobody will ever eat them, but nobody can throw them away either. They're frozen monuments to good times and family gatherings.
The elaborate wrapping systems involving multiple layers of foil, plastic wrap, and freezer bags suggest they're being preserved for future archaeologists. Each package is a time capsule of hope that someday, someone will want leftover green bean casserole from three Thanksgivings ago.
Final thoughts
After years of observing these freezer habits, I've come to appreciate them as more than just quirks. They represent a culture of resourcefulness, preparation, and holding onto memories in tangible form. Sure, it makes zero sense to keep five-year-old corn or mystery fish from the Clinton administration. But there's something beautifully optimistic about saving things "just in case."
These freezers are museums of good intentions and family histories. Every package tells a story about a hunting trip, a family gathering, or that summer when the berry picking was especially good. While my Boston upbringing keeps me practical about freezer space, I've learned to respect the Midwestern freezer philosophy.
Even if I'll never understand why anyone needs that much rhubarb.
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