Friday, May 17, 2013

On the Blowing Up of Microwaves (Or, More Indirectly, Why Nathan Didn't go to Prom with me Junior Year)

It is prom season, and you know what that reminds me of?  Microwaves.

More specifically, that I should not cook with them.  Ever.  



My tumultuous relationship with microwaves began when I was very young.  It was the first time we were watching National Treasure (one of my favorite movies ever, no shame) in my basement home theater, and during a highly suspenseful chase scene, we decided we wanted popcorn.  Movie paused, my friend Vivian and I went to try to make the really cool movie-theater style bucket of popcorn (like this one) we'd bought earlier with the movie, but we couldn't find the tray for the microwave.  We stuck the popcorn in anyways, because we were like ten and didn't figure it would make any difference.  We went back to our movie.  

That ended with Vivian going to check on the popcorn a few minutes later and telling us that it was ON FIRE.  (Luckily, it was pretty contained.  We didn't get any popcorn, but that was about the worst of it.  And we've never used those movie-theater style buckets since.)

Since, there was the time I burned noodles in the microwave while on the phone with one of my best friends because I am bad at measuring water and the time that I stuck a pot with metal elements in the microwave while I was babysitting.  (Sorry to my lovely neighbors for the destruction of their cookware.)

That was all prior to high school or so.  Afterwards, I became much better at microwaves.  (I had enough mistakes to learn from.)  I was also never responsible for the destruction of a microwave.

Until junior year.

When I was a junior, I brought my lunch to school frequently, and sometimes I used a thermos bowl.  I decided one morning I would reheat my food in it before school to make it stay actually warm, rather than pointlessly lukewarm by the time lunch rolled around.  I had heated things with their covers on but vented before, so I figured this would be no problem with the thermos bowl as well.  

My assumption was shattered, along with the top of the microwave, less than a few minutes later.  I heard a loud noise and looked up from the kitchen table to see a blue disk flying through the air at top speed.  Vegetables and ravioli followed.    

Thanking my lucky stars I had not been standing in front of the microwave waiting for my food to be finished, thus avoiding severe brain damage from the cover of the thermos, which was now halfway across the kitchen, I headed over to check out the damage.  There were vegetables all over the floor, the stove.  The door of the microwave, oddly, was fine.  The cover of the bowl had flown out by opening the door rather than destroying it.  I opened the door to discover a horrifying sight.

You will  never believe how fully a small meal, exploded, can cover the inside of a microwave.  But that wasn't the part that was going to get me in trouble.  Before flying out the door, the cover of the thermos apparently rocketed straight upwards (pressure!), breaking the plastic top of the microwave into several pieces and cracking the rest.  I had a guess this was going to be an expensive mistake.

And I was going to be late for class.

Luckily, "I accidentally exploded my microwave this morning" counts as an excellent excuse, even to the strictest of band teachers, and even more luckily my father "never liked that microwave anyways" and bought another without much fuss.

So what about prom?  Well, later that spring, one of my best friends, Nathan, and I were joking around with my parents at the kitchen table.  I didn't have a date at this point, and I was telling him he should go with me, even though dances aren't his thing.  My parents agreed.  He said he'd go with if we'd rent the tux.

My father pointed to the shiny new microwave on the wall and said, "There's your tux."


  1. It's not my fault I have no money :c

  2. It is a joke. It IS my fault I blew up a microwave. We have plenty of other junior year memories.