And since I am not allowed to cook anything – for the safety of those present at the meal – when I "cook," it has to be something heated in the microwave.
The extent of my skill is to just keep putting it back in until it is hot. I have no formula for exacting a time that will magically make the food the right temperature when ... DING ... it is supposed to be done.
I watch the timer count down ... 3 ... 2 ... 1 ... DING! Pulling out the container, I check the heat index. Too hot to touch and liquid around the edges is bubbling, but it smells wonderful. Hmmm. Hope I didn't leave it in for too long. (That's another thing ... how many times to you just guess at how long to cook something in a microwave then wait until that last second counts off the timer like the microwave will implode or something if you don't wait until each second clicks off.)
So I take a bite–expecting a bit of burn from the heat–and the food isn't even Luke-warm. (Also, with luke-warm, you aren't running cold water over your fingers after taking the container out of the device.)
The edges are boiling. Steam is rising. The container is almost dripping – yes, even a "microwave safe" container – finger tips are dancing around the rim looking for a safe haven from the heat. But the middle of the container still holds food molecules that refuse to get excited about all the energy aimed at it.
When snowed in for three days, you do have a lot of time so I thought I would write this blog to coin a new name for describing this heating paradox: "melt-the-container-cool" (substitute cold or frozen as appropriate).
So the next time you pull something out of a microwave and the edges are too hot to touch but the middle is not there yet, you'll know how to describe it, and smile. You're not the only one.
And with that ... DING! ... this entry is done.
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