The Delightful Jazz of the Musical Microwave

Post CLXIX

Here’s the story of a potato peeler, invention, and a sausage.

Some would argue that dramatically diving to save my sausage from hitting the ground was a tad melodramatic. It was over in seconds, but in my mind, it was a different story. The sausage fell from the counter. Without thinking, I leapt into the air in slow motion, arm outstretched and screaming “NOOOOOO!” It was all in vain, readers. It was just too late to save my sausage. As I stared at the sausage’s dirty carcass, kneeling by its side, somewhat saddened, the theme tune from Titanic started playing in my head. Some would say that does those who died onboard the ship a great disservice, but it is important to remember that most of that movie is made up. And that Celine Dion wasn’t actually onboard singing that song as it went down. I didn’t know what to do with the dirty sausage. I contemplated chucking it in the back garden and hoping pigeons like sausages…

I’d had a hard day, readers. I’m struggling without mum and dad around, and knowing they’re on a beach in a luxury paradise isn’t helping, especially considering it’s been wet and miserable around here, lately. The kitchen is the worst. There’s a huge pile of unclean dishes waiting to go in the dishwasher, and I can’t be bothered to sort it out. The worktops are full of crumbs. Not to mention the sausage on the floor along with several pieces of pasta. I know adults have a go at us young ‘uns for not keeping on top of kitchen duty, but honestly, we don’t know how it happens. You don’t notice the dirt piling up until one day, you’re diving through the air to save a sausage, and suddenly, something ‘clicks’. You notice what you have become. A slob. Wondering if pigeons will eat pig. You could say that when I was younger, where I am now isn’t where I anticipated I’d be. But you’d be quite wrong.

I set all my expectations to the lowest level, so when I fail, I’m not disappointed, but if I succeed, I’d be delighted. Some would argue living life in a constant state of worrying about failure is a miserable existence. But I don’t mind it. When I was 13, I thought that by the time I was 24, I’d be in a huge freezer awaiting awakening and a cure for ‘severe ice-cream headache head explosion’.

I was cooking dinner. One could call it the mixed grill equivalent of the four horses of the apocalypse. If that made any sense, which it doesn’t. I don’t know how it happened. The sausage just leapt from the counter top and fell off. It wasn’t even round. It was more oblong, than anything. I’m in a state of confusion. Not only do I have leaping sausages, oblong objects apparently roll. These are two things I always thought shouldn’t happen. It’s been that sorta week. I haven’t even mentioned my mysteriously disappearing pork chops. One minute, on the windowsill, the next, gone. I should’ve printed out a ‘missing’ poster and pinned it up around the neighbourhood.

I ended up having to defrost more chops. But obviously, defrosting takes a while. Heck, the tried and tested method of leaving it on the windowsill over night doesn’t always work here in grey and wet North East England. A blowtorch would be preferable, but when I mentioned that idea to mother, she was against it for some reason. I mean, it was only a joke. Unless she said ‘yes’. So you have to resort to the microwave. Which is always a difficult balance to find. Too long in the microwave, your meat goes all soggy, too short, and your meat is all hard. And who in their right mind likes hard meat?

The worst part is the whining drone. That, ‘Mmmmmmmmmm’ that goes on for ages. I plan, one day, to hook up some sort of music system for each setting. For defrost, for example, when you put it on, it plays a funky jazz number. And it plays on a loop. I even plan to have some sort of scanner that scans the food in the microwave and plays a tune that suits the food. Raw meat, you’d get a blast of Metallica. Tofu, well, I don’t know, Sir Paul McCartney. Imagine that future. Metallica getting 10% of their royalties from musical microwaves. It’s the future, readers.

I tell you what else we need to invent. A better way to wake somebody up. My alarm clock failed me for the first time ever this week. It simply didn’t work. It didn’t go off. I was late for this thing I’m on. It’s not important, what. Who would’ve thought an alarm clock bought in 1993 was due a breakdown? What? Hey, I keep technology until it breaks. 1993 may have been 21 years ago, but they sure knew how to make alarm clocks back then. I’m always saddened when old technology breaks. I feel like I’ve failed it. When the last gramophone on Earth finally stops working, you’ll feel like you’ve done something wrong. Sure, an alarm clock is far different from a gramophone, but I argue one is much more useful than the other. I’d be a useless historian, wouldn’t I? “So Ally, you dug up a Roman potato peeler and a Roman coin, and you threw the coin in the trash?” “Yes.” “Why?” “Well, the coin can’t be converted into modern money and I have some potatoes that need peeling.”

The next day, I had to use my iPad. I don’t like digital clocks. I don’t trust them. Technology will break, it’s hardly reliable, but your boss isn’t gonna buy that, is she? Your only options are to invent a failsafe alarm clock or sleep with your boss, because then she won’t give a crap if you’re late. Of course, this situation is hypothetical, because a woman in a position of power would never sleep with an employee or give them advantage. Women are wonderful. Really smashing. Please can I have a ladder to get out of this hole, now?

You can’t prepare for anything, can you? Falling sausages. Failing alarm clocks. Defrosting hell. Expectations. Missing meat. Missing parents. A charred kitchen towel. I wasn’t prepared for any of this. You just have to charge at life head on and deal with whatever comes your way. Hmm, did I mention the kitchen towel? Erm, oh – no, I didn’t. Ah, it’s not important. Just a small fire, the usual…

Yes, one more week alone. As I said last week, and probably shouldn’t have, what could possibly go wrong?

American author, Jarod Kintz (b. 1982), once said, “I wish my stove came with a Save As button like Word has. That way I could experiment with my cooking and not fear ruining my dinner.”

Peace Out :|:


I’d love to hear your thoughts on this post. You can leave a comment and/or like this post below, or by clicking the title on the top of this post if you are on the archives page. Likes and follows greatly appreciated. Thanks.


Please feel free check out the latest posts from my other two blogs:

To Contrive & Jive
New Posts Every Monday, Wednesday and Friday
Click Here to Read the Latest Post

Hark Around the Words
New Posts Every Monday, Wednesday and Friday
Click Here to Read the Latest Post


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