November 18, 2013 23 Comments
The turntable in our microwave is broken.
Whenever we put something in there to heat up for a few seconds, the motor tries to turn the glass disc to rotate our food, but it’s too weak to actually accomplish its objective.
So when I want to heat up my leftover ravioli, the microwave makes this loud, obnoxious, Orc-like “RRRRRRRRRRRR” noise, which rattles the glass disc against the metal base.
Luckily there’s a “Turntable Off” button, which silences it, but the bigger problem still remains.
Our food doesn’t rotate.
So our refried beans get burnt on the edges. Or it takes extra long to cook things that should just take a minute or two.
And sometimes I forget this. So when I scoop a bite of seemingly steamy mashed potatoes into my mouth, I immediate spit them back out on the plate because it’s still cold in the middle.
It’s like drinking water when you think it’s Sprite.
It’s instinctive, spitting lukewarm food out of my mouth.
I don’t spit my cold ice cream out, because I know it’s going to be cold, and it’s supposed to be.
I don’t spit my sizzling steak out, that had just spent the last hour-and-a-half in a 450-degree oven. It’s hot, the way it’s supposed to be.
But those mashed potatoes – when they give off the illusion of being warm and toasty, with steam billowing off of their sides – I expect them to be warm.
And when I bite down and realize it’s all been a lie, and that the middle is still icy-cold, I don’t want to swallow – I want to spit.
And spit I do. It’s not by choice. It’s not because I’m mean. It’s not because I just love to cast judgment upon my food.
Spitting my deceptive food back out onto my plate doesn’t make me an unfair, evil culinary dictator.
It’s just a reactive impulse.
After all, I gave my mashed potatoes more than enough time to heat up. But they didn’t. They could have not sizzled and smelled so good when I opened the microwave. They could have just remained cold and I would have given them more time.
They didn’t have to lie to me and give off the appearance that they were done.
But the hidden ice-chunks buried underneath a lukewarm exterior are enough to make me spit them out, because it’s not what I expected. And it’s not what I asked for.
“‘I know your works: you are neither cold nor hot. Would that you were either cold or hot! So, because you are lukewarm, and neither hot nor cold, I will spit you out of my mouth.'”