The microwave blog
A blog that started it all. One of the first blogs that went public via Weebly.
A blog about a broken microwave.

We often take things for granted. Even for the smallest of things, we don’t pay attention until they are no longer with us.
Our microwave croaked a week ago. The missus informed me over the phone in a grumfused-that is grumpy but confused tone. I was walking home at this point.

Did you try switching on and off” IT technician part of my brain suddenly kicked in
“you mean unplugging and plugging back in?” the missus corrected me.
“You know what I mean,” I responded with the universal verbal Tippex after quietly thanking myself for not using words like “shutdown” and “reboot”.
The missus followed my instruction with a few humphs as I wait on the other end.
“it didn’t work” She gave up.
“Not to worry, I will take a look when I arrive” I comforted her and increased my speed.
I went straight to the kitchen, probably pretending to be an expert on microwaves.
Once again, I subconsciously performed the “unplug-wait-plug” steps. I  immediately felt a bunch of stupidity hovering over my head. I looked at my missus who was watching my every step with ” my husband is an expert” eyes.
In an attempt to unsee, I lifted the microwave to the dining room and plugged it there.
Then I replaced the fuse as a final attempt as the missus watched patiently and proudly.
No Joy.

I threw an annoying and frustrating look at the ancient-looking white box and wondered whether he witnessed the first moon landing. 
I wished I could ask this, but the box was motionless. Its blinking monochrome eyes were long gone and something unknown had silenced the attention-seeking beeps forever.
I gave a long sigh of farewell. A certificate was signed and funeral plans were arranged.
The next step was to inform the estate agent,
We recently had our washing machine replaced, and we weren’t too sure whether the landlord agrees to replace the microwave too.
“Leave to me,” the estate agent responded in a heavy Indian accent.
Phew, A sigh of relief escaped after learning that we weren’t out of our pocket.
It would be very difficult otherwise- especially in January when we don’t get paid for the over-six-week period and the budget is normally stretched to the limit.
We didn’t miss our white box that day as both of us left home in the early hours. And in the evening, we made some non-microwave meal and the poor white box never made it to the dinnertime conversation.
The poor thing remained still in the kitchen as if it was waiting for a miracle cure. Helpless, mute!!
The next morning, we used the oven hob to boil milk and make porridge.  
“It tastes better when you cook things properly,” the missus claimed,
Not true respect to the deceased box, but I agreed. The porridge was delicious, however, It could be our inbuilt mechanism to compensate for the loss. A self sympathy. 
There was nothing we could do, apart from waiting for the potential delivery courtesy to the landlord. 
After waiting for three days, we decided to chase up.
“I thought I told you to buy one and we will compensate you”  the agent barked,
We couldn’t conclude whether the estate agent was lying or the ghost of our old microwave trying to stop us from replacing him. Either way, there was no point arguing with the agent.
So I ordered a replacement. And we started to truly miss the box.
On day four, we pretended that we tried to avoid the microwave heating, but the milk and leftovers claimed otherwise.
Day five: the missus heated milk in a pan, on the hob, on the kitchen floor…..
 I must admit, the pan looked delicious with burnt milk and the aroma took no time filling the entire house.
Was it an act of posthumous revenge from our beloved white box? 
“You disrespected me, now let me fill your house with my revenge, you will then never forget me (evil laugh)”
Maybe, the box was indeed trying to communicate with us, warning l us for disrespecting him.
Every time we opened our main door, we were welcomed by the aroma. No matter what we do- from letting the windows open and freezing to our (my, to be precise as the missus doesn’t have any- literally) balls off, emptying cans of Febreze, singing, dancing, exorcism (exaggeration) – nothing worked for the stubborn bastard.
But the more we feel the smell, the more we missed our box, He would never let this happen to us if he was alive. With an exception of rare overflowing, he was a loyal companion to us.
RIP big fella!!
Hey gorgeous… you look uh-mazing!!
I caressed as  I unboxed the newest member of our kitchen family.

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