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.
If you’re standing by a cash register purchasing a train pass, a flat white or lottery ticket and have your coins out, calculated and ready to be handed over seamlessly, blessings be unto you my friend. But if the phrase “I think I may have 45 cents in here somewhere” frequently finds its way into your daily repertoire, and is proceeded by you foraging through your bag like a possum digging through mounds of junk… I ain’t got time for you.
When I was younger, I used to follow my dad to the register at our local café and supervise his order. While most children would longingly glare at the picturesque pastries, creamy carrot cakes and moist, mouth-watering muffins that stood behind the glass counter, I instead would ensure that my dad remembered to change his usual double-shot flat white order to a cappuccino. Why? So that I could indulge in the warm chocolate frothy goodness that sat proudly above the strong coffee beneath. Each spoonful of aerated milk felt like a cloud disintegrating in my mouth, and the mellow hum of espresso that lingered on my tongue excited my taste buds.