(Original photo stolen from jmv at Flickr)
Shirley, my childhood friend, was the first kid I knew whose parents owned a microwave oven. It must have been about 1976, making us 10 or 11, and I was over at Shirley's house one afternoon. Shirley was eager to show me the new machine, so she decided we needed a warm slice of cake. She cut a triangle wedge of yellow cake, plated it standing, and popped it into the Radarange.
(Original photo stolen from these guys)
"Lemme see . . . how about five minutes?" Shirley posed the question to no one, as I had never even seen a microwave, much less selected a cooking time.
We watched it cook for a few seconds, and then we noticed that the donkey was out running in the yard, so we ran outside to put him back in his field. This sort of thing happened frequently in both of our households -- daughter of a dairyman and daughter of a large animal veterinarian -- so we thought nothing of the interruption.
Until we went back into the kitchen.
While goats, sheep and deer were not unusual inside Shirley's house, smoke was unusual, and we remembered the yellow cake.
Well, it had started out yellow.
Shirley poked the black wedge with a tentative finger. It disintegrated in a puff of ash. Shirley shrugged, and we ran back outside to find the donkey again.
SO . . .
It's your turn. Tell me about your own personal Microwave Hell. Post it as a comment here, write a post on your own blog, or email it to me at foolery (at) clearwire (dot) net and I'll post it as a guest post this week. Tomorrow I will publish Bob Cleveland's story about a microwave and an egg. Yeah.