: i’ve never had a microwave :

I’ve never had a Sub-Zero refrigerator, either, or a Viking range, that’s just overkill when all they’ll do is store and heat frozen dinners. A block of ice and a heating pad could do as much. Regrettably, my enthusiasm for cooking began and ended with my Easy-Bake Oven. When the light bulb burned out, the oven’s only heat source, so did my interest in food preparation. Baking and cleaning up were highlights when I was six. Now? Not so much.

For a few weeks in high school I was a waitress at a diner. The owner was a miserly, ill-tempered woman who lived above the restaurant. One of her cost-saving measures was to return uneaten dinner rolls to the warmer, to be served again and again. The dinner rush ended by 6:30, the place being a favorite of the elderly, and she’d disappear to her quarters until closing. One such evening, an impromptu jell-o toss broke out in the kitchen. The goal was to get the days old jell-o squares to stick to the wall. Throw too hard and it splattered, too soft and it bounced. Long story short, I got busted mid-toss, then fired.

That was my introduction to bad kitchen experiences. Years later, the lid got stuck on a pressure cooker. I gave the lid a good twist and heard the hhsssssss, but kept going until the ka-boom. After a quick trip to the emergency room and three weeks of healing I was good as new. Bad kitchen experience II. And there was the time I got a Coke from my sister’s refrigerator and opened it with a pair of scissors, the bottle opener being no where in sight. After a quick trip to the emergency room and four stitches, I was good as new. Bad kitchen experience III.

You get the point, right? Why invest in fancy, schmancy appliances when nothing good would come of it? Buying a microwave would make as much sense as buying an unexploded bomb. Believe it or not, there are some chances I’m not willing to take. I can get a pizza delivered in minutes without endangering my health. I can open a box of cereal in seconds, no stitches or burn creme necessary. I mean, I like food and everything, but let’s not go crazy here. I don’t need to be the one who prepares it or the one suffers the consequences. And neither is the dog — he learned that the hard way.

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