The Stew Saga
I made a massive pot of stew this weekend. When I say massive, I mean absurdly large for someone living alone. To give you an idea, it started with three pounds of meat—beef and pork for the record. From there it ballooned into measurements such as two bags of this and multiple pounds of that. In case you’re wondering, it turned out amazing. Unfortunately, before I could reheat my first bowl the next day, my microwave broke, essentially sticking me in the culinary Stone Age. What am I supposed to do, reheat stew on the stove like some Neanderthal? I don’t think so.
So today on my lunch break I took a detour to Wal-Mart in order to pick up a new microwave just so I could have a hot lunch. Thanks to the ongoing construction (we’re deep into year two by now) on the only, and I do mean only, road that leads to the end of town where Wal-Mart is, I was way behind normal schedule by the time I got home. And then I had to let the dog out, and then I had to move the old microwave, and then I had to unpackage the new one.
The problem with using an unfamiliar microwave—whether just purchased or simply your friend’s—is that you have no idea what variables will be involved. Will three minutes leave my food tongue meltingly hot or just lukewarm? Do I have to stir halfway through or will the rotating plate thingy be enough? Does the power level actually make a difference? With my maiden nuke, I ended up with a plate of stew that was one half too hot to touch and one half several degrees short of reheated. And yet, despite the danger of not knowing if the next bite would scorch my pallet or not, my rushed lunch was a sublime mix of slow-cooked, flavor-mingling perfection.
