Microwave memories

The morning light filtered through the dusty kitchen window. I was small, so looking up through it, all I could see was sky. The cabinets of the kitchen had a thick coat of paint, filling in the dents and splintered wood, smoothing it to the touch, but not completely concealing it. On the stove was a dented, steel colored kettle, hot with the water which would make my grandmothers instant coffee. She wasn't paying attention to it now. Instead, she was dealing with the enormous, TV sized, microwave, which she was making one of our favorite treats. Justin and I didn't know or care that this was just a way to get the last little goodness of an old donut. What we cared about was the smell of sweet bread and sugar which filled the air as the door swung open and the gooey sweet goodness of the texture and taste. We enjoyed the simple microwaved donut in a way that is hard to imagine now, but my grandmother, she enjoyed us, watching our joy from something so simple and that makes perfect sense.

I watched through the plastic door to the contents of the running microwave. A dozen toothpicks lay spaced out on a paper towel. I was hoping this would dry the cinnamon oil, which they had soaked in overnight. I could smell the fireball like smell leaking out of the edges of the door. Behind me the world went on, but for me it was just me and this experiment, this hope I could make something to sell. As the cycle went on, the toothpicks became a little fuzzy, perhaps moisture on the door or a little fog. It seemed good to me, a good sign it was working. When the cycle ended it wasn't like my Grandmothers microwave. It beeped, not rang a bell, and the cycle completely stopped on its own. My view went black. I opened the door to check almost immediately. The fog which had been trapped inside rolled out and caught me directly in the face, burning my eyes and making it hard to breathe. Microwaves are not good for drying things, but they make great ways to injure yourself.

The high chairs sat side by side. They were white and blue Gracos, which tilted back and had a five point harness. Savannah sat in one and Sierra sat in the other. Both the girls wore red pajamas, which I think had been their cousins and bibs which proclaimed the greatness of their father, bibs I had chosen because I was feeding them. I turned from look at their anticipating face back to the microwave. Inside the glass table turned slowly. Now you see the Gerber baby, now you don't. The trick was to get the mashed up, reddish brown, mashed vegetables to be warm, but not hot. Pop the door, stir the contents with a rubber coated spoon, check the temperature. Perfect. The chill had been removed, no risk of burning, the only thing left was dancing between the two so the could both remain content and not covered in whatever this reddish brown food was.

Shelby and Sienna stand before the microwave in the kitchen. Before them is a paper plate with bread on it. Shelby unwraps the singles of cheese, which she is putting on the bread. Sienna stands purposely where she is in the way for Shelby to get to the bottoms on the microwave, purposely where it makes the most since for her to do the cooking. Shelby pops the door open and Sienna leans toward her, pushing her while she puts her hands on the buttons. I expect Shelby to close the door and punch the 30 seconds in real quick, while her sister protests, but she doesn't. Sienna starts the microwave and they wait for what they call microwaved grilled cheese.

"Get Up, get dressed, make coffee" is what I put in my log, which is how I start nearly everyday. This morning, as I flipped the lights on in the kitchen, I can see that most of the coffee from yesterday is still in the pot. Now, I am a coffee snob, mail ordering and fresh grinding my preferred roasts, but I don't believe in wasting coffee. So, my head has a short fight, good and fresh or ok, but no waste. The no waste side wins. I pull out two cups, one for me and one for Shelly. I fill them both, hers just a little less so their is room for creamer. I put hers in the microwave first. I don't do this because she is not capable, I do it because I can add her favorite creamer and place it on the end of the table, waiting for her, when she comes down stairs. A little, microwaved, I love you.
Reheating coffee