My husband and I often have these highly intellectual debates that range from whether it is safer to clean your ears with a tooth pick or with a hairpin or if it is necessary to wash one’s hands before eating when you’re going to do that after your meal anyway to whether loudspeakers are louder during political campaigns than during religious festivals or if a microwave oven is more useful than a fridge.
The last named topic became a subject for debate quite recently. As long as the fridge reigned supreme in the kitchen, given its excellent ability to swallow into its magically expanding interior practically anything, including food, there was no question of any competition.
And then came the microwave.
My friends had long been persuading me to get one while my stubborn contention was that heating food on the gas hardly took time and was probably healthier. But one day when the cooking gas got over, the replacement cylinder was nowhere in sight, and, displaying perfectly malicious timing, the electric stove ended its innings with a bang. I whimpered and looked at my husband.
In a few microseconds we made up our minds and in a few more we were at a home appliances store requesting a microwave oven with basic features. ‘For heating and eating,’ my husband explained to the salesman, cutting short his sales talk. The salesman wasn’t pleased but finally found one that suited our requirements. ‘Someone will come in the evening for a demonstration,’ he told us curtly and washed his hands of us. We bought the oven and ate out.
That evening a technician arrived for the demo. ‘Very simple only,’ he said. I beamed. The simpler, the better. ‘Can I have some water?’ he asked. ‘Poor man, must have had a long day,’ I thought, and brought him a glass of chilled water. He frowned. ‘Madam, water to demonstrate how to heat it in the microwave.’ He drank it anyway.
I quickly filled the glass from the tap. He placed it in the oven and set the timer. ‘Ooof!’ he exclaimed when he took the glass out. ‘Too hot!’ The water bubbled and spilled over his hand. ‘What kind of a glass is this?’ He asked, holding his hand under the tap. I got it free, I confessed. ‘Don’t buy anything free, Madam,’ he advised. He didn’t let me point out the flaw in his statement and continued, ‘all third rate only. It could have broken.’ ‘It has.’ I pointed to a crack along one side. He grunted, then showed us how to warm some rice after examining the bowl closely. ‘Paid with good money,’ I assured him. But before I could get him to heat our dinner, he sensed my intention and beat a hasty retreat.
Microwave misadventures followed. My friend, a great votary of the microwave, came home that night with a classy new bowl and popcorn kernel to celebrate my initiation into the microwave user group. Pop! went the popcorn. Crack! went the bowl, dividing itself neatly into two equal parts; we had put too few kernels and no oil at the bottom. My training had begun.
Another microwave enthusiast gifted me some microwave-friendly plastic containers. My husband frowned. ‘No plastic containers. They may be great friends with the microwave but not with our digestive system.’ Out they went.
The next day I served my husband ‘puttu’ heated in the microwave. It fell on the plate with a “thunk”. Alarmed, I moved away to witness a fascinating duel. He put a spoon to it; it bounced and scampered gleefully to the other end of the plate. He used greater force; the spoon almost split the plate but the puttu rocketed to another corner. Vexed, he jabbed a fork down to spike it but it leaped straight for his eye and showing amazing reflexes, he took a blinder of a catch. He gave up on cutlery and used his fingers to break it but couldn't; it was rock hard. ‘Good weapon,’ he observed sardonically. ‘If Tippu Sultan had had microwaved puttu balls in his arsenal, it would have changed the course of south Indian history.’
The trial and mostly error period included warming cup cakes and almost setting the gadget on fire, getting curries dehydrated to dry sediments, turning chappathis to the consistency of roofing tiles...But finally we got the hang of it. Now I cook, the fridge preserves, my husband microwaves the food and eats it. Warm food on the table beats everything else. End of debate.
[khyrubutter@yahoo.com]
(A fortnightly column by the city-based writer, academician and author of the Butterfingers series)
