Buying a new microwave oven should be a fun thing. Okay, it might not be as much fun as buying a new Porsche, but it definitely beats tweezing your eyebrows.
My husband and I went microwave shopping when our old one began either leaving our bacon almost raw or turning it into charcoal. Don’t remind me you can cook bacon the old fashioned way in a skillet. My smoke alarm is resting.
We went to our nearest big box store and found the microwave display. My only requirement was that I wanted a white one. I know stainless steel is in, but it just wasn’t my thing. White is timeless and goes with anything.
After looking over the choices, my husband went to find a salesperson. Why are they never around when you need them? When enough time had lapsed for me to crochet an afghan, he returned, accompanied by a kid with an eyebrow piercing and a lightning bolt tattooed on his forearm. I was positive I knew more about microwaves than he did, but I decided to give him a whirl.
My instincts were right. The young salesman was clueless. I got out my bifocals and read boxes with him. When did microwaves become so complicated? All I really wanted was something to cook bacon, reheat my coffee, and defrost meat once in a while. Does anybody really cook a whole dinner in a microwave? I have a microwave cookbook, and make good use of it. It’s under the short leg of my night stand and does a great job steadying it.
The array of microwaves had me stumped. I didn’t think I really needed 1100 watts, but 800 somehow didn’t sound like enough.
The cubic foot thing almost made me weep. I hate algebra or geometry or whatever mathematical category cubic feet falls under. The one I was vaguely interested in was 1.1 cubic feet. I didn’t see one on display, and trying to visualize cubic feet gave me a headache.
Some microwaves automatically rotate the food for more even cooking. Some have browning features and enough power levels to make a computer game envious. I can’t be positive, but I think I saw one that wakes you up, serves you coffee and dresses the children in the morning.
By the time I had looked at all the choices, I was exhausted. My husband put his arm around me. “Honey, here’s a nice one. It’s not white, but it looks pretty simple.”
It wasn’t a microwave. It was a stainless steel toaster oven, but nothing rotated and there were no cubic feet involved. I could learn to love stainless. Maybe it’s the new white. Looking at Tattoo Boy, I ordered, “Pack it up.”
Time to learn to cook bacon in a toaster oven.
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