Microwave Memories

I don’t know why it took me so long to clean the microwave this time. I hate a dirty microwave, but procrastination had the best of me.

At first glance, the microwave innards look like an exploded can of rainbow-sprinkled confetti. I see the back right corner is more like the remnants of a drunken projectile vomit. I take a deep breath and get ready to brave the unknown. I choose to forgo rubber gloves and go in naked.

I gently remove the glass plate that spins frozen blocks of mystery into food that looks delicious but tastes less like the floating delectables you see on those NASA news clips from the 50s with Buzz, Neil, and the like. That’s one small step for TV dinners, one giant step for GERD.

After dousing the inside with a degreaser (the only chemical under my sink suitable for surfaces that produce feed for my herd), I let the orange-smelling liquid bathe the microwave for about five minutes. I hope to wipe the sticky unknown into the super-absorbent crevices of the disposable towel I’ve paid too much for. My double-folded Bounty doesn’t disappoint. With one swipe, I have a once-edible pile of sludge in my hand. I wonder if I’ve pissed off my seven layers of epithelium by not wearing the gloves.

Next, I eagle-eye the sludge in case I need to recount details for the nurses in the ER.

There are re-warmed remnants of my first attempt at homemade pizza. Pat would be proud. Okay, the crust was less pliable than his, but the salsa was deliziosa! I felt as good as any aspiring mafioso wife. My old neighbor, Elvira Vitale, would be proud. Elvira, if you’re listening from up there, tell my husband Pat I did good.

Just under the re-warmed pizza, I see a bit of surviving sauerkraut embedded into a chunk of exploded knockwurst. But where were the homemade mashed potatoes that went with these German staples? Perhaps they disintegrated into electromagnetic oblivion.      Pat and I were both from German families. My dad was from Hamburg. Pat’s family immigrated from Hanover. Dad, I know you’re up there with Pat. Tell him my sauerkraut is authentischer.

I grab another swatch of Bounty and prepare for the second wipe, apologizing to my epithelium which signaled a warning via alert follicles, their hairs standing at the ready. I close my eyes and go in, grabbing the drunken vomit in the back. At a closer look, I see this is part of the potpie I made two nights ago. Again, the crust was not as flakey as Pat’s, but the chicken and fresh-picked vegetables rivaled any my mom had made. My mom was from Richmond, Kentucky. When I was a kid, she filled our bellies with my grandma’s best Southern fried recipes. Mom, if you aren’t arguing with Dad, tell Pat I’m still working on the crust, but I’ve perfected the filling.

Folding one more Bounty, I stand back and survey the land. I’ve done a pretty good job. All that remains is the yak spit on the glass microwave door. Wiping the film off the door, I can see through it now.

Elvira, Mom, Dad, Pat, I got this.

I can see there’s a roof over my head. I see the picture of our young family taken twenty years ago on the wall. Next to that hangs my oldest son and his wife’s boot camp photos. Just to the right is a picture of my youngest son holding the keys to the new Camry he purchased. On the shelf is our wedding picture and one of me and the boys taken shortly after Pat’s funeral.

Sinking to the stool I used to reach the microwave, with fresh Bounty in hand, I wipe the sweat from my brow and the tear from my eye.

Elvira, Mom, Dad, Pat … I got this.