There’s been an awful lot of button punching going on in my Brooklyn pad since my kitchen was demolished. I’ve been getting reacquainted with my microwave, an old pal from my boarding school days. It was then that I relied on it equally with Mr. Toaster to provide me with the necessary sustenance that school house meals were unable to provide. Saturday night at the pub were not complete without cheese toasties made with the toaster on laying on its side and microwave pasta & sauce. The cheese toasties were legendary but the microwave pastas less so. In the years since, my Quasar has had little more than a look in from me and sees more mugs of lukewarm tea and hard brown sugar than it does food. There’s something about cooking in a microwave that just makes me gag- perhaps its the way the smell of microwaved salmon lingers in the work kitchen after one of the crew cooks his dinner.
So we’ve been making up for lost times and becoming buddies again. Well, sort of. He didn’t like it when I tried to bake a chocolate chip cookie yesterday (hey, things are desperate around here, people and I needed something sweet). There were a few sparks and zapping noises and my apartment was left with the unforgettable smell of burnt chocolate intermingling with paint fumes. He also doesn’t know that once this whole renovation debacle is over and I’m no longer high on the paint fumes he’s going to lose his prime real estate position on the kitchen table. When I have my new kitchen he’ll either be making friends with other recycled appliances or perhaps hanging out with a less neglectful neighbour who fancies its electromagnetic waves cooking their dinner. It’s a sad fate, but Quasar just doesn’t fit into my new kitchen design.
I can’t claim that I’ve been nuking-up culinary wonders though- think more like the occasional sweet potato and frozen leftovers from the freezer. And there’s nothing like microwaving leftovers and sweet potatoes to induce a phase of culinary meloncholy. The electromagnetic waves paired with the thought of washing-up in the bathroom sink and eating off of paper plates seem to have zapped my enthusiasm. I thought that I might make myself feel better by going through my cookbooks and magazine clippings and dog ear all the things that I’m going to try when I have a kitchen again. But alas, it has not helped. Not only has this made me more depressed but I’ve also managed to wrack up quite a hefty Amazon bill on new cookbooks- which I decidedly do not already have enough of. I’m like a child writing their wish list from Santa Claus in July. Christmas will never come soon enough.