Open Writing

Today when the beeps from the microwave call me to collect a hot and tasty treat for lunch I am happy to respond. Pleased at the speed of mealtime preparation and the absence of pots and pans in the sink.

A very different reaction to the day the man-about-the-house arrived home with twinkling eyes and a grin that would have won him first prize at the Cheshire cat club. I have learnt to be wary of this elated state as the man is addicted to garage sales and his treasures are often --- well you know what goes with treasure. The other T word.

With great pride he showed me his buy of the week. An enormous twenty-year-old convection/microwave. Now the only thing I knew about microwave cooking then was that one of the English scientists who first produced the oven for household use had said quite categorically that he would not have one in his house. That was good enough for me. I did not want one either and especially this one.

There was no accompanying written information and our numerous phone calls trying to trace a twenty-year-old instruction manual all resulted in the same answer, buy a new oven.

Undaunted, m-a-t-h scoured the charity shops for old recipe books and persuaded an electrician to write down the start procedure. Armed with his newly acquired knowledge he prepared a meal and put in to cook. See. It is easy,' he said spooning anemic looking food onto my plate.

I rarely used the oven and when I did, I kept the thing at arm's length, shutting the door quickly and leaping back three paces the moment I had pushed the buttons. M-a-t-h was more courageous and decided to cook a chicken. The books were consulted, the chooky marinated and seasoned then placed in the oven. With a great flourish the timer was set and he moved to the other end of the house and settled at his computer.

I was outdoors gardening when I became aware of a strange smell. I called m-a-t-h asking if his chicken was all right. 'Of course. I followed the book. Don't to worry,' he called back. The smell was terrible and five minutes later I tried again. 'Stop fussing,' says he. 'It takes thirty-five minutes.'

I had to go and look. It is a woman thing I guess. Smoke poured out around the oven door and brown liquid dribbled down the wall behind it. The chicken was incinerated. All that remained were bones that when touched, disintegrated as ash.

The oven had been set on microwave instead of convection. The revolting odour that lingered on in the house for weeks made me promise myself, that no matter how hard-up I was, I would never accept employment at a crematorium.

That was two years ago and now we have a new microwave and I have overcome my fear. Well, almost. I still prefer to cook chicken dishes in the standard oven.