32 seconds

As hard as it may be for today’s youth to grasp, the microwave oven has been a standard appliance for less than a generation. Back in the days when dinosaurs roamed the earth, I had to pop my popcorn in an air popper (it had a butter melting tray on top), which was de rigueur for anyone planning to have a slumber party or go to college. Leftover pizza was eaten cold (with coffee and cigarettes by a short-lived boyfriend).

When I was a senior in high school, my mother needed surgery that would involve a lengthy recuperation. She wasn’t going to be able to do any major cooking for a while, and we were going to have to fill in the gaps. Her cousin urged her to get a microwave: they were new and different, yes, but they saved oodles of time.

So, part of the preparation for surgery involved shopping for a microwave at—another relic unheard of today—the appliance store. What’s more, when you bought the appliance, you got cooking lessons to go with it! My mother and I dutifully showed up, notebooks in hand, to learn how to cook the new-fangled way. We were dazzled by zapping a whole head of cauliflower, then melting Velveeta over it; we learned the formula for adapting a cake (mix) to the microwave, and even nuked pork chops. Looking back, we laugh at how they tried to teach us the things that really don’t work well; it seems to me they could have concentrated on dishes more prone to success, like veggies and fish.

We went home and showed off: my brother was transfixed by the undulating cake (there was only one very wimpy fan to push the waves around, so uneven cooking was the rule). And we demonstrated the cauliflower trick (using real cheddar—no processed cheese food in our house). My father, the engineer, absorbed this all in contemplative silence. The next day, as he made his standard deli meat and cheese on sourdough sandwich, he placed it on a plate (not the gold-rimmed ones, we had already learned that lesson the hard way), and punched in 23 seconds. He ate his not-quite-melted-cheese sandwich in silence. The next day, he tried 38 seconds. The cheese ran out on the plate, and he had to resort to a spoon to scoop the gooey mess onto his sandwich. And so it went, until the end of the week, when I went to put my own sandwich in the microwave, and he said, “32 seconds for a sandwich.” It was perfect, melted but not runny, bread warm but not overly chewy.

The last time I visited my dad, he could barely shuffle to the kitchen to make his lunch, but he did. The new microwave did a sandwich in 27 seconds, he told me. And his microwave repertoire had expanded to include a half a can of his favorite chili. He preferred heating it on the stove, but it was too dangerous to use a gas stove with his oxygen mask. I served chili, made from scratch on the stove, to friends after his funeral.

I’d like to think I learned something about patience from the old man. I know I learned a lot about human nature and the power of habits, both good and bad.

I think we’ll have chili for supper tonight.