A Comedy of Mishaps and Mourning

You never realize how much you rely on something until it gives up the ghost. Case in point: our microwave died last week. The missus rang me, sounding both cranky and bewildered. I was on my walk home.

“Did you try turning it off and on again?” I asked, feeling very tech-savvy.

“You mean unplug it and plug it back in?” she shot back.

“You know what I mean,” I said, deploying the universal conversation rubber—silently congratulating myself for avoiding words like “shutdown” and “reboot.”

She tried my suggestion, punctuated by a few exasperated noises. “Nope. Still dead,” she reported.

“Don’t worry, I’ll check it when I get in,” I said, quickening my pace. I headed straight to the kitchen, pretending I was some kind of microwave whisperer, and promptlyperformed the classic unplug-pause-re plug routine a few times.

Before giving up, I replaced the fuse.

Immediately, I felt a cloud of foolishness hovering over me. The missus was silently observing my moves with “my husband knows what he’s doing” eyes, which didn’t help. I lugged the microwave to the living room and tried a different socket. Nothing.

I glowered at the old white box, wondering if it had been around during the Apollo missions.

I wished it could tell me, but the thing was unresponsive. Its little blinking display had long since dimmed, and whatever made it beep for attention was forever silenced.

With a long sigh, I pronounced it dead in and started planning its funeral in my head. Time to call the estate agent.

We’d just had our washing machine replaced and weren’t sure they’d spring for a microwave too. But I had no choice.

“Leave it to me,” the agent said in an unnatural tone, “We’ll call you.”

What a relief.

January is brutal: overspending at Christmas, followed by a six-week stretch between paydays.

The next day.

We didn’t miss the white box since we both left home early and when we returned, we cobbled together some “no-microwave-required” meals while the dearly departed white box sat in the corner like a brooding appliance ghost.

The following morning, we made porridge in the oven. The missus swore it tasted better.

It did… sort of. But we still missed our late worktop companion.

We waited for the replacement, comforted by the memory of rapid meals dinged to perfection.

After three days, we followed up.

 “I thought I told you to buy one, and we’ll reimburse you!” the agent grumbled, channelling a curmudgeonly old goat.

We couldn’t decide if he was fibbing or if our microwave’s spirit was meddling to stop us from moving on. Either way, arguing seemed pointless.

By day four, despite ordering a replacement, we pretended we didn’t need a microwave at all, but the leftovers weren’t buying it.

Day five: the missus heated milk in a pan, then boiled it on the hob, and on the floor….

I’ll admit, the pan looked delicious—caramelized milk clinging to its sides—and the smell took about two seconds to conquer the entire house.

Was it posthumous payback from our dear white box? “Disrespect me, will you? Enjoy my aromatic vengeance forever! (evil cackle).”

The scent of the burnt milk hung around for several days. Each time we stepped inside, we were hit with the aroma of “eau de burnt”. . We tried everything to get rid of it—flinging the windows open and freezing ourselves (particularly me, since the missus doesn’t have any), using up multiple cans of air freshener, chanting, twirling, and maybe even performing a mini-exorcism (a slight exaggeration). But the odour refused to go away.

We resigned ourselves to the situation and attempted to move on. Yet, the smell served as a constant reminder of our cherished microwave. None of this would have happened if it were still functional.

I glanced at the silent appliance and muttered, "Rest in culinary peace, my friend!"

Ding-dong. The doorbell went.

“Hey, gorgeous” I cooed as I unboxed the newest member of the kitchen family.

 "You look absolutely delectable!"