The history of our microwave oven is patchy at best. Facts get confused all the way down to the origin of how we acquired him. Scientists believe we acquired him shortly after we moved to Chicago five and a half years ago. We probably picked him up for some ridiculously low price at what is believed to be a Wal-Mart somewhere in the suburbs.
We were poor and the microwave was cheap. We were wide-eyed wanderers in a brand new town, and we had just gotten married. The microwave was as unknown to us as the life we were just starting. The situation wasn’t ironic, wasn’t memorable, but it was perfect in its own quiet way. Our microwave was a reflection of us, and we used that microwave for many meals.
Tonight, while attempting to heat some casserole, I discovered our microwave had died. Completely died. He went peacefully, in his sleep. There was no pain.
…Which was rather inconvenient, really. I had to use the conventional oven to heat up dinner.
But the timing, however annoying, is almost poetic. We bought our microwave at the same time as we bought our guest bed linens. Quite fitting, then, that he should crap out on us now that our guest bed is gone in favor of a baby room.
We’re not going to get a baby microwave, though. That would be ridiculous.
But our baby will need to grow up with a microwave of her own, and we have some decisions to make. We may decide to replace him with the old clunker of a microwave that is currently taking up space in our pantry. How we got that other microwave is even more of a mystery. I think we picked it up on the side of a road in Boston many years ago.
At any rate, the old microwave was with us through good times and bad times for almost our entire time here in Chicago, and he deserves a proper farewell as we send him off to Microwave Heaven…