Death of a microwave

The moment I dreaded happened on the evening of the day after my 60th birthday. My microwave died.

There was no hint that morning that those egg whites would be the last thing cooked inside Mo. That’s right, I named my micro. Years ago, I noticed right off it had a masculine hum.

I’m not implying it was a more effective than female microwaves. I just had a sense of comfort around it I didn’t feel with other appliances.

I used my toaster oven exactly once. As soon as someone invented the micro, toaster ovens should have been removed from the market. If I enter a potential friend’s home and spot a toaster oven, that’s a deal breaker.

I subsequently tried to give mine away unsuccessfully. Eventually I drove up to a suburban garage sale, surreptitiously slipped it in among a stranger’s miscellaneous, jumped back into my car and sped away. Toaster ovens are for Third World countries.

Anyway, back to my ordeal – I tried to save Mo. I kept pushing all the icons on its face, even the popcorn one. Over and over I tried to heat canned peas and all I got was a sick, off-pitch noise, the whine of a small furry animal giving birth.

Finally I gathered myself, studied its bright interior with the chili stains on the walls, touched its dish for the last time, and gently shut its door.

I cannot convey how difficult it was to unplug Mo and lift it from the counter. Underneath were crumbs dating from when the Knicks were still good, and a dark stain shaped like Jeff Goldblum.

As I carried it to the dumpster, other condo owners emerged from their homes and offered condolences. They knew I was a single guy who didn’t cook and I was ready to snap.

That night, I found another micro in Wal-Mart. It was smaller, the cheapest they had. I figured, how much power do I need anyway? I figured wrong. Everything I put in there took twice as long to heat as Mo. Its hum isn’t as pleasant. Instead of pushing the minute icon, you have to turn a knob. High power isn’t Mo’s high power. But I will persevere. Yesterday I brought garbage out to the dumpster and there was Mo, off to the side by himself, away from the vacuum cleaners and computer monitors and one decrepit mattress. It took all my willpower not to gather him in my arms and carry him back.

I could use it as a storage space for extra utensils, which I had previously found in a bamboo suitcase in front of said dumpster.

But common sense took over – I’m the most sensible guy I know, especially since I turned 60. So I averted my eyes and ignored its accusative glare.

I named my new micro Giambi because it’s as slow as Jason. I’m still afraid to cook popcorn, but my life will go on.

Joe Del Priore is a frequent contributor. Comments on this piece can be sent to: current@hudsonreporter.com.

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