An Ode to the Microwave: Unloved, Forgotten, and Snubbed
I know I’m the last person you want to hear from right now. But I’m hungry, and I feel like I have to make things right with you. When the other chefs heard you were living with me, I went along with their jokes, acted like you had just come with the apartment and that I never used you.
As if, after a long night, you don’t warm a piece of lasagna in a quarter of the time it would take me just to preheat the oven. And I don’t even have a baking dish that is appropriately small enough for one piece of lasagna! Without you, I would just eat cold lasagna directly out of the dish it was cooked in because I am lazy and it’s still pretty good that way.
As if I don’t depend on you at my restaurant, too, because you make perfectly softened butter exactly one minute before I work an extremely hungover brunch. Your effortless butter saves me from the constant frustration of trying to pry out a small spoonful of ice-cold butter every time somebody orders scrambled eggs. (And when I’m hungover and working brunch, absolutely everybody orders scrambled eggs.)
My chef buddies just don’t understand. They were taught by a generation of pros who simply spouted the kitchen rules they learned without really thinking about them. And that generation watched as unspeakable things were done to food in your name. They watched as TV dinners showed everybody how food could be soggy, chewy, scalding hot, and not at all delicious all at the same time. And they were bummed—I get that.
Source:: Bon Appetit