MAN VERSUS MACHINE
CORRECT USE OF A MICROWAVE REQUIRES A MENSA-LEVEL IQ, SAYS ROB INGRAM.
IT IS MORE KITCHEN THAN confessional, but that’s where I found myself recently, head bowed in humble contrition, mumbling my confession, pathetically seeking forgiveness and praying for guidance, crippled by the shame of an offence more against myself and my sense of community than against God. And, to complete the despondency of the scene, my hot dog was as cold as a cadaver.
Today, I’ll ask you to join with me in the Sacrament of Penance and Reconciliation known to all of us who never bothered to master the microwave and who have suffered the ensuing shame and guilt.
The microwave oven was first sold for consumer use around the time I was born. Okay, it wasn’t a plaything for infants, so I’ll allow myself a few years’ grace. Even adults in those early years were fearful of ionising radiation from microwaves and a possible link to cancer. But, within a decade, kids were cheerfully producing after-school popcorn in the microwave, and adolescents were employed in takeaway outlets nuking dubious foodstuffs that were probably considerably safer after radiation than before.
However, for me, evolution just made the microwave increasingly challenging. First of all, there’s the dilemma of where to put the damned thing. Our house is 140 years old. We devoted half a lifetime to making it look 150 years old. The warmth, the welcome, the integrity of Grandma’s farmhouse kitchen. The ever-ready teapot on top of the wood-burning stove, the stone floors, the earthy-coloured wooden cabinets, the brass taps, the butcher’s block. But always stopping short of the twee – no vintage French bicycle carefully parked in a corner of the kitchen with dried flowers in the basket and garlic draped over the handlebars.
Where does the microwave fit into the traditional country aesthetic? It doesn’t. We found it a recess near the refrigerator – another spectacularly un-rustic appliance – but it had the benefit of telling us what the flashing digital time was whenever we felt the need for a midnight snack. A benefit, that is, until there’s an electrical storm over the Central West slopes, a possum has tragically climbed an electricity pole, or we’ve forgotten to pay the power bill.
Resetting the time on the microwave is not easy. The well-practised might get to enter two of the four digits, but the remainder of the time will be displayed as A4, which Auto Menu will tell you is Broccoli 150g, 300g, 450g or 600g. Repeat the process and you may be asked the specific gravity of your pasta or whether, in fact, you meant DEFROST BY W.T. What the?
Okay, we’ve all exploded an egg, a chilli pepper, a gherkin, a tomato or a squash in the microwave, but if you’re really looking for a task to take up the rest of the weekend, reheat an unlidded bowl of pasta with thick tomato sauce on top. The lava lamp has nothing on this for drama.
Less challenging, you may think, is the task of reheating soup. The basic requirement here is to know the weight of your soup. Remove soup from the soup-weighing appliance (it’s almost certainly in the cupboard under the sink). It’s also handy to know that to cook soup, you press the button that says SOUP. The display will confirm that to cook soup you require A-8. Press the button repeatedly to set the weight of the soup. For example, press the SOUP button twice more to set 750g. Press the START/ EXPRESS COOK button. Cooking will start. At the end of cooking time, the microwave will beep five times.
So, why do we bother with the damned thing? Well, for the cat, of course. If we’ve forgotten to thaw the Five Star Prime Beef Mince, it’ll require a quick blast of START/ EXPRESS COOK before displaying any interest.
As for us, well, there’s always the cold hot dog. With plenty of mustard, of course.
“WHERE DOES THE MICROWAVE FIT INTO THE TRADITIONAL COUNTRY AESTHETIC? IT DOESN’T.”