God bless the inventor of the microwave. And the inventor’s family, children, grandchildren, friends, pets, employers, neighbors, milkmen, etc. Seriously. If I could write a book solely about the invention of the microwave, if I could dedicate the amount of time equivalent to the hours and hours using this fabulous device has saved me into some sort of tribute, an homage to the microwave and its inventor, I would. Unfortunately, writing a book about a microwave probably wouldn’t be much of a read. It would basically consist of pages and pages of me engaged in various forms of microwave worship. My son must think that is where food comes from. This magical cube that hovers above our stovetop, lighting up and humming and beeping and giving forth steaming plates of rice, pasta, oatmeal, anything we could want to eat (which, if you’re my son, is nothing).
What the hell did people do before the microwave? Cook? For their toddlers? Were kids less picky then, or were parents stricter when it came to meals? I vaguely remember being fed what everyone else was eating when I was young, but also remember depositing much of that food onto a little ledge beneath the table when no one was looking—green beans, peas, noodles, pieces of pork chop. The food sat there until the places were cleared and my family scattered like roaches, then my dog would come along and scarf up whatever I’d left in the secret hiding spot. We had a system, the dog and I. She never gave me away, and I always made sure to keep her supplied with morsels that, to me, were only slightly more appetizing than Alpo.
I would write more, but my microwave is beeping, indicating to me that lunch is ready. Bon Appetit.