WHEN we brought home a brand-new microwave, it did not arrive as an appliance. It arrived as a prophecy. The salesman promised a culinary renaissance. This gleaming metallic marvel would bake, roast, grill and gratinate. Cakes would rise like proud palaces, pizzas would be of pizzeria quality and cookies would emerge golden and guilt-inducing. The advertisement had already whispered that life would be good. We believed it with the fervour of pilgrims pursuing a promised paradise.
After all, why settle for ordinary cooking when a few magical beeps could apparently transform one into a master chef?
The microwave took centre stage in our kitchen, shining like a silver spaceship that had accidentally landed among spice jars and steel utensils. It possessed more buttons than I had reasons to use them. Convection. Grill. Bake. Roast. Defrost. Combination Mode. Auto Cook.
The accompanying cookbook’s glossy pages flaunted photographs of cakes, casseroles and continental creations. The family was ecstatic. “Now we’ll have homemade pizzas!” “And brownies!” “And baked vegetables!” “And garlic bread!” Unfortunately, all eyes eventually swivelled towards me.
Apparently, purchasing a microwave automatically confers a diploma in culinary wizardry. I opened the recipe book. The first recipe demanded precise temperatures, particular trays, specific racks and timings calculated with the precision of a space mission. The process looked cumbersome and confusing. I was ready to surrender. My family was not. Thus began the Great Pizza Project.
Flour flew like festive confetti. Cheese scattered across the counter. Capsicum cubes staged a dramatic escape. Bowls multiplied mysteriously. The kitchen transformed into a battlefield where ingredients and instructions fought for supremacy. Meanwhile, the microwave blinked and beeped. While wrestling with settings and struggling to decipher symbols, I could almost hear it protesting: “Please stop. I was perfectly happy reheating tea.”
After a lot of chaos, clatter and confusion, the pizza emerged. It wasn’t burnt. It was merely bewildered. That heroic experiment marked both a beginning and an end.
The grilling rack and baking tray retired into domestic oblivion. The microwave settled comfortably into its true calling. Reheating leftovers. Warming dal. Defrosting peas. Day after day.
Looking around the house, I realise that the microwave is not alone. It has distinguished company — a treadmill moonlighting as a clothes stand, a juicer awaiting its second innings and a food processor processing little beyond regret. Together they form a silent museum of underutilised ambition.
Our microwave, however, remains the star exhibit. Twenty-seven buttons stare at me daily. Twenty-six remain unemployed. The 27th works overtime. It is labelled “Reheat". If appliances held annual performance reviews, the microwave would recommend terminating the rest of the staff.
The writer is ex-principal, Mukand Lal National College, Yamunanagar