On Microwaves

I have been, for the past 12 years, the proud owner of a Sunbeam microwave oven.

J hates it.

Truth be told, I see her point. It isn't a great microwave oven. But it is, along with my hot-pot and black "jazz" coffee mug, one of the relics of my 16th birthday. I was a pretty happy 16 year old that day, because I was getting my own apartment and starting my undergraduate degree in less than two weeks instead of returning for my last two years of high school. The issue had still been in doubt for most of the spring semester, but the financial end of it was cleared up, and I had made arrangements to live the small upstairs studio of dilapidated colonial owned by a reclusive epileptic old man. (How did my parents ever let me do this?)

My 16th birthday party was important. My parents gave me two white plastic crates full of the necessities for independent living. Inside were four bowls, four small plates, and four knives, spoons, forks, and mugs. They were white with a green stripe around them, and have all long since been broken or disappeared. They packed a box of Folger's Instant Coffee teabags, because although I wasn't a coffee drinker, they thought I might discover the luxury of a morning cup in college. They gave me a pay-per-minute cellphone that was primitive by today's standards but might as well have been an iPad in 2001. (It had a little antenna at the top that you had to pull up to use.) They packed me with multiple cans of Chef Boyardee canned ravioli and Dinty Moore stew. (I still can't look either of these in the face) I think there was a skillet, a lone small pan, and the hot pot. I got my still-working black coffee mug with pictures of jazz musicians on the side. I think there might have been a jar of pickles. And last of all, there was a big box--a Sunbeam microwave.

The Sunbeam is appropriately named. If you leave a slice of refrigerated leftover pizza by an eastward facing window for two minutes, you get about the same result as when it goes in the microwave. It was never a great kitchen appliance, even at the height of its powers. But for me, it was a symbol of independence. When I could have been munching on cafeteria tacos with half-brown lettuce awaiting an impending 90 minute block of high school gym, I was instead heating up a bowl of Chef Boyardee ravioli using my very own microwave, before I walked a mile in the snow to practice in the music building for a few hours. The microwave carried great symbolic value.

J faced an interesting situation before we got married. Her Davis grandparents gave her a choice of wedding gifts. The first option was a sleek and high-powered fancy microwave similar to the nuclear model that her parents own. "But," they said "your parents told us that Roy already owns a microwave, so we were thinking you might want <this> instead." (I don't remember what the other option was, but we chose that. I'm sure that whatever it was, it's been very useful and we love it.) J wrestled with this decision.

"Your microwave is pretty pathetic." she said. "And really, it might not be worth saving at this point. I mean, have you ever cleaned that thing?"
"I clean it all the time!" I protested. "And besides, it works great for me. It heats things up eventually. Didn't it make you a great Valentine's day dinner?"

(Less than a month after we started dating I made dinner for J on Valentine's day and served it to her in the upstairs studio of the dilapidated colonial of the epileptic reclusive. Because I didn't own a table or chairs we ate off an old piece of wood laid out on the floor. Dinner was plain white rice, most of which I'd burned on the stove, with chicken and dumplings from a can, and hot chocolate, which I poured from a packet into the white and green mugs after heating up water in the hot pot. But she still married me eventually.)

Anyhow, J and I have always wondered whether we made the right decision about passing on the very nice microwave we were offered at our wedding. Still, the Sunbeam has survived 6 apartments and is still going "strong." We have learned a lot about how to get it working just right for us. At first the only two results we could get while reheating leftovers were "frigid" or "burnt to a crisp." Now we are able to consistently find a sweet spot in the timer knob (it doesn't have power settings, of course) where we can burn the outside of whatever it is we're serving to crisp while still leaving the center of the food freezing cold.

J has begun, as she did with our old Station Wagon, actively hoping for its death. A few months ago she tried to microwave something and nothing happened. There was no power at all. She told me that in the next few minutes she did a happy dance and clapped and sang for James. As it turned out the power cord was just slightly dislodged. She warmed her leftovers most sadly.

James loves the microwave, of course. If we turn it on he wants to be as close to it as possible, pressing his nose up against the clear plastic front and watching the food spin around. I hope he isn't too radioactive by this point. We usually try to pry him away into the other room, but he'll fuss and cry, and then he runs back to watch it some more as soon as we put him down. He's also taken to twisting the timer knob while food is being cooked, but this often doesn't make a difference anyway.

I discovered last night that, although I know exactly how long I need to set the microwave to reheat pizza or leftover casserole, I have no idea how to use the microwave to get James' food ready. J was at church, so I was giving James supper on my own. I knew I needed to start with the bag of frozen vegetable medley. I put some in a bowl, covered them with water, and then put the bowl in the microwave.

"How long should I microwave your veggies, James?"
"Da DA da da. Da! Da! Hahaha!!"

I decided that meant one minute and thirty seconds. The veggies were so hot when I pulled them out of the microwave that I ran my fingers under cold water. James, knowing that it was time to eat NOW, promptly fussed at me.

"Okay, we're going to wait on the vegetables. Let's start on some leftover chili instead."

I put the bowl of hot vegetables in the freezer so they could cool down, and pulled the chili out of the fridge. Clearly a minute and thirty seconds was too long for vegetables. I decided to start at thirty seconds with the chili. The chili dinged, and it was also way to hot too eat. So I pulled the veggies out of the freezer, and put the bowl of chili in there. And then I pulled my pizza out of the fridge, and put that in the microwave.

I gave James some vegetables, and he spread them all around his tray, threw them on the floor, and put them down the front of his shirt. I think he might have even eaten a few of them. My pizza dinged, and I had two slices of delicious leftover homemade BBQ chicken pizza. It was wonderful. There were sweet onions and parsley, and I savored every last bite.

And then I remembered about the chili in the freezer. It had been about 20 minutes, and the chili was pretty much frozen. As it turns out, James likes frozen food. He asked for more chili once we'd finished the first dish, and I didn't even bother putting it in the microwave. He's a good sport.

This isn't his only difficulty with heating food of late, either. Two nights ago when J was cooking our delicious BBQ chicken pizza, she told me that I needed to hold James for a moment. We had been playing with his blue rubber ball, which I think was a racquetball ball before he started gnawing on it. It bounces very well in our kitchen, so we have fun with it. I scooped him up, and we walked over to watch Mommy take the pizza out of the oven.

I think veteran parents would be wiser than this. What do you think happens when you lean over a hot open oven holding a baby who is holding a bouncy rubber ball?

He threw the ball. It bounced once and bounced right into the oven. All three of us yelled "AHHH!!!" at the same time, and J managed to get it out in less than ten seconds using a wooden spoon, with no burns to herself and minimal scorching to the ball. Still, it was pretty traumatic. Fortunately, the pizza tasted great.

One final note: If you are attempting to hire musicians for your event, please model your request after the first of these two examples, which happened within five minutes of each other last Friday and which I am not in any way making up:

EXAMPLE 1:
"Hi, Mr. Smith?"
"Yes?"
"I was wondering if your jazz combo might be able to play at x event on x date. It would start at x o'clock and go to x o'clock."
"Let's see. I think I'm available. I'll check with the others. What would the pay be?"
"It would be x dollars, plus dinner."
"Great, I'll let you know."


EXAMPLE 2:
"Hi, Mr. Smith?"
"Yes?"
"We're having an event on x date, and The LORD told me that your group should play..."


No word from The LORD on whether we'd get paid, but things don't look good.