Nuke junk

I find it hard to believe a microwave oven can be the cause of high blood pressure. No, I’m not saying the invisible rays radiating from the oven whenever I press “start,” nor am I saying the volcanic temperatures of anything warmed therein gives rise to the rise. It’s the SE error code that makes my ears pop and my face turn blue.

My microwave, affectionately referred to as NukePOS, is a state-of-the-art, over-therange unit purchased when I thought it was time to retire the twenty-year-old oven I’d picked up for well under $100. The old oven was still operational, by the way, it lives and waves in our youngest daughter’s kitchen. It mocks me when I visit the girls. I am taunted by its simplicity and compliance . Anyhow, two years ago, I was feeling flush with creative success and I decided to treat the family kitchen to a new appliance or two or three. The idea of having a microwave over the range just seemed so grown up and with it. So Lidia and Nigella and Julia. The old machine is/was pretty straightforward. It had a timer, a door opener and a start button. Of course, it had a clock setting and a couple of features like “popcorn” and defrost, but honestly, I nuked to soften butter and, occasionally, take the chill off a cup of coffee (I know, the horror, right.) I do have a few microwave cookbooks, but seriously, microwave cooking is like saying ‘fine dining at the arena’ and does anyone actually use their microwave cookbooks? For one thing, if the meal is microwaved, you can’t shout to the rest of the hungry horde, ‘Dinner in an hour.’ Indeed, there really isn’t an hour of anything in a microwave except, perhaps, tanning a t-bone. Seriously, ‘Dinner in 40 seconds’ doesn’t have the same cachet as the aromas and anticipation of a piping hot meal coming from a conventional oven.

Be that as it may, I was saucy-talked into a particular brand because of its functionality and its beauty. I should have known the day NukePOS was delivered—and dropped by the delivery men in our driveway— it had “bane of my existence in the kitchen” written all over it. The dropped machine had to be returned. The door was crushed beyond functionality and the control panel was out of control. Of course, the delivery men wouldn’t take it back, who can blame them for that? They delivered appliances. They didn’t deal in the return of damaged appliances. So, our kitchen had a gap where the new toy was going to reside for two weeks while we waited for a pickup and replacement. Within hours of the replacement’s arrival, my over the range microwave was installed and waiting to warm up my afternoon coffee, pop some popcorn and melt a pound of butter. Voila. It looked as if I knew kitchen design. The vent vented, the light over the range lit up my stovetop and the timer timed. I’d arrived in grownup kitchen land. The bliss of popping, melting and warming lasted until about 12 weeks after the warranty ran out. It seems this particular model just can’t handle the heat of being in a kitchen, not to mention the steam rising from the stovetop, even when the vent is venting. ARRRGH. And we all know how it goes with products out of warranty, right. Too bad. So sad.

I had nothing to lose by emailing the manufacturer for answers and, as it turns out, gained nothing in doing so. They weren’t interested in my microwave—the one with their logo on it—and they certainly couldn’t understand why I thought it would work over the range. Perhaps I should unplug it and follow the restart directions. Oh me. Oh my. Blood pressure. Not to be stymied by a popping, melting, warming machine, I googled the problem and found a delightful Youtube video of someone fixing the same problem. Couldn’t hurt to try. I was slightly afraid of being blown to the outer limits of our solar system, or at the very least waking up the next day with a second belly button from the radiation. I shakily removed the electronics panel and proceeded to fix my NukePOS. When I put it all back together, voila, it worked—well, it worked for another six months. I became Fearless Microwave Woman. Over the last six months, in addition to a repeat of the YouTube fix, I’ve introduced the control panel to a bit of dirty talk and spanking.

Last week, I gave in and ordered a replacement panel. Replacement POS arrived, by mail, two days later, but without the electronics attached, even though I had carefully explained to the parts person what my problem was and what I needed. Needless to say, my blood pressure skyrocketed to new heights and I seriously question the need to have a NukePOS or a microwave to pop, melt or warm things. The problem is, I’ve got a great big pile of nuclear waste in my kitchen. The repair would cost almost as much as a replacement. I think I know what I have to do. Our junk drawer doesn’t hold nearly as much junk as it should—a junk nuke appeals to me, somehow. Ya, that’s the repair ticket.

theresa@wellingtontimes.ca