Microwaves. They are a true blessing to cash-ridden university students and to culinarily-challenged singles around the globe. They are the pinnacle of convenience, and yet ironically, I ain’t got time for ’em. No, I am not Jamie Oliver. I do not profess to despise microwaves because of the starchy, fatty concoctions we place inside it. Microwaves are not entirely at fault here; they do not deserve to cop the blame for our expanding waistlines. But do you know what they should be accountable for? My second degree burns. That’s what.
Last week, I attempted to reheat a bowl of spicy veggie stir fry from the previous evening. As the blaring bleeps disturbed the peaceful air, indicating to all within a three-house radius that my meal was ready, I opened its door and removed my lunch wearily. Mr Microwave appeared to have done his job! The fresh fragrance of coriander, Thai-basil, and soy wafted throughout the kitchen. The glossy, dark, silky sauce folded through mounds of bok-choi, broccolini and sugar snaps, and I was certainly enticed to dig in. I raised my fork to devour the goodness that sat before me, when suddenly – HOT HOT HOT HOT HOT!!! (and no, I am not referring to the chilli). My tongue was just short of being fully cremated by my scorchingly hot lunch. But in an event like this, there’s no need to grab a cool drink to sooth your mouth. Just turn your bowl around, and eat the other half of your meal; because chances are, IT’S STILL FROZEN.
There have been instances where I was required to wear oven-mitts to remove my meal, as if I was a nuclear scientist carefully extracting highly sensitive rods from a pressuriser. I am known in our family to have combusted our grandmothers microwave when making popcorn (despite following all packet instructions, might I add). And I have also managed to transform beautiful succulent chicken into bouncy rubbery balls in the span of approximately a minute. What evil magic is this? Melted lids, soup explosions and oozing melted-cheese-spillages…I ain’t got time to deal with that.
The worst piece of advice on packet instructions is that ‘cooking time may vary depending on the microwave. Adjust accordingly’. What if my microwave is as random as a slot machine and loves to mock me? WHAT IF MY MICROWAVE IS EVIL?
A week later and my taste buds are still incinerated from the stir-fry incident. I ain’t got time for microwaves. I ain’t got time for their sheer lack of predictability, and I certainly ain’t got time for their bipolar sense of logic.