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.
When I’m in the kitchen, I act as if I’m the star of my own cooking show. I detail every aspect of the recipe to the tea
spoon for my non-existent fan base; describing the taste and texture of the fusion that’s magically bubbling away in my cauldron pot. To make it even more legitimate, I add a pinch of fancy jargon (‘balance of flavours’, ‘respect the ingredient’ and ‘the star of the dish’ are the most common), and showcase an endearing idiosyncrasy (my bum-shaking/head-bobbing/pan-stirring action) inspired by the likes of the great lisp of Jamie Oliver. Yep if Law school doesn’t work out, cooking is my plan b, followed closely by floristry.