The microwave is an awkward appliance. It falls into that murky area between necessity and convenience. Sure, I could boil water in seven minutes on the stove, but wouldn’t it be convenient if I could boil it in three?
I remember when this ubiquitous culinary hardware made it into our household when I was a kid. It rivaled the size of most console television sets and had mechanical dials much like the conventional oven. It also boorishly owned it’s space on the counter-top. When the ‘Nuke-ro-wave’ was in operation, us kids were advised not to go near it. My parents were hoping to protect us from the mystical microwave energy that was sure to penetrate our fragile little bodies, forever altering the genetic makeup that would some day be their grandchildren.
Appliance salesmen the world over boasted the miraculous wonders of this ‘little’ device. The cookbooks that doubled as an operator’s manual for the ‘must have modern convenience’ convinced mothers everywhere that an entire Thanksgiving meal could be prepared in the microwave (attachments required, of course). If you’ve nuked anything grander than a Swanson TV dinner in the mic you know this is not true. Inside every dish’s scalding hot exterior hides a frozen surprise.
Our mic gets used a lot by our boys when they get the itch to make experimental snacks – usually consisting of crackers and anything that melts. It’s harmless cooking as far as I’m concerned – as long as they don’t stand right in front of it. Hey, for all I know the genetic altering effects of microwaving may skip a generation. I don’t want my grand-kids to be affected.