I attempted to make a bag of popcorn last night, but backed off suddenly and yelped at the sight of the microwave’s interior. The husband replied, “I told you I hadn’t cleaned that up yet.” It seems that the chicken we’d nuked because the rain was dousing the grill (which is another story entirely) had exploded in major way, spewing chicken juices and BBQ sauce all over the microwave. The next step, of course, was to wipe things out, so I wiped down the oven walls and top while putting the glass tray from the bottom of it into the sink. The tray would take a while to soak, so I put the popcorn in the microwave and hit the magic “Popcorn” button.
It didn’t sound right and it didn’t smell right, either. Only about half of the kernels popped and half of those were burned. (Do the math. I dare you.) I ran the bag out to the compost bin and threw the ruined popcorn in before the aroma could spread through the house.
Meanwhile, the adult male in the family decided that he would be chief cook and try again. The aroma and erratic pips and crackles soon made it evident that he’d failed, too. His ruined bag ended up on the deck, waiting until morning to hit the compost bin with mine.
We decided that the glass tray on the bottom of the microwave must be important. Before you say, “Duh!,” I’ll just remind you that we’re educated people and fairly competent with most technologies. We’re both college graduates and work in highly skilled fields. But the magic of the glass tray just snuck past us, like one of those illusionists and the Metamorphosis trick. How did we miss it? No, don’t answer that.
The third time was a charm, not a strike out, thank goodness. It was time to celebrate our small success and have a drink to go along with it. We got out the blender for margaritas. Mmmm…popcorn -- at last.
"Hey, where's mine?"
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