A Story: An Exciting New World

No recipe. Just a story. You have been warned.

Dad bought our first microwave in 1971. The large black box commandeered the counter, pushing the paper towel holder, toaster, and crock of wooden spoons out of its way. To his credit, Dad bought the fanciest model available — the one with both “on” *and* “defrost” settings. Defrost was a dizzying alternation of 30 seconds on full power and 30 seconds off. This self-toggling technology bordered on mind-blowing. I was eight and enamoured of this near-mystical machine. Some might say I was obsessed.

As large as a wall oven, The Microwave sat boulder-like at the edge of the counter.  I approached it with a mix of fear and curiosity. I had been read the riot act about not putting metal in it and remained shaken from the sparks that lit its interior when I heated cocoa in the good gold-rimmed china. Even opening the beast required my full attention. It took all my weight and both hands to release the latch. I’d then have to duck out of the way as the the door swept across the counter like an iron gate. But once opened, it performed miracles. It could heat a Chelsea bun in 12 seconds flat. And not just warm it. The bun was so hot and the icing so bubbling, you’d burn your fingers when you picked it up. 

Determined to master The Microwave, I studied the accompanying cookbook, aptly named An Exciting New World of Microwave Cooking. I flipped through its pages, in awe of the promised repertoire. With it as a guide, I scrambled rubber eggs,  boiled over bowls of chicken noodle soup, and made mug after mug of lip-burning hot cocoa, complete with incinerated marshmallows atop. I was blind to its failings. Despite its lightning speed, my usually efficient mother cooked in the oven and on the stovetop. She squandered its potential by using it to melt butter or reheat last night’s leftovers. Convinced this magnificent machine was under-used, I pestered my mother to make dinner in the microwave. What about fish? Potatoes? Lasagna?

When Mom pulled out the bread bowl from the drawer I seized my chance. Bread took forever. We could be eating it in a fraction of the time. I grabbed the microwave cookbook from the shelf, pointed to the glossy colour picture of bread, and pleaded my case.

“It takes less time,” I said. 

“No. That’s a special recipe,” she said, pulling flour and yeast from the cupboard. 

“But you have the ingredients.” I looked at the evidence sitting on the counter. 

“It won’t work,” Mom said, tossing her heavy wooden bread spoon beside the book for emphasis. 

“And why not?” I played my last card, betting she wouldn’t know the science. 

She returned to her dog-eared recipe card, not looking at me as she replied. “The heat is different.” Her tone indicated the case was settled. Hardly.

I compared the two recipes. One written in Mom’s culinary shorthand on a tattered and splattered index card, the other typeset, bound in an authoritative hard cover, peppered with glossy pictures. The ingredient list looked similar.  Flour, water, yeast, salt.  Citing the evidence, I pleaded my case. 

Knowing she’d have no peace, Mom cut a deal. She would bake her rye bread in the oven. I would cook an experimental loaf in the microwave. When she had finished mixing the dough, she tore off a softball-sized piece and handed it to me. It was mine to knead, proof, form and bake. Game on.

When the bread had been shaped and risen for the final time, she popped two tin loaf pans into the hot oven. I placed my Pyrex bowl of dough into the microwave. The one thing we could agree on was no metal in The Microwave. 

While the oven silently baked Mom’s bread, the microwave hummed away. I watched the bowl through the glass door as the bread basked in the invisible rays.  After 10 impossibly long minutes, the timer rang and I removed the loaf. The bowl was hot, but the bread looked doughy and pale. Mom gently knocked on its crust with her knuckle. It didn’t sound right. Another five minutes? 

After a few more five-minute rounds in The Microwave, I rapped my knuckle against its top. Despite its pale colour, the crust was hard. “Done!”  I declared nodding my head with unearned authority. A few minutes later Mom removed her loaves from the oven. They were browned and gave a satisfying thump when she rapped on them. I had won the timing race, but not by as much as I’d expected. We left the loaves to cool for dinner. Hers golden brown and fragrant, mine anemic and reeking of disappointment.

After I’d finished setting the table for dinner, Mom placed my loaf of bread on the cutting board and pulled out the bread knife. “Ready?” she asked.

“Ready!” Triumph was seconds away.  

Instead of slicing through the crust, the knife skidded across the surface like a stone skimming water.  Mom tried again, applying more pressure. This time, the blade barely left a scratch. Undaunted, she sawed back and forth as if cutting a log. The blade left little more than scuff marks. After the third attempt, Mom put down the knife and, using the tone usually reserved for a stubborn jar of olives, said, “Go get your father.”

After several unsuccessful attempts, it was my father’s turn to set the bread knife down in defeat. He cupped the loaf in his right hand and flipped it gently like a baseball. He turned it over a few times, examining at its surface, as if inspecting invisible stitches. Tossing the loaf above his head, he let it drop to the counter. It landed like a brick, rattling the dishes in the sink. “Wait here,” he said, then disappeared into the basement. 

He returned with a drill and the largest bit in his collection. I held the loaf steady while my father bore a hole straight through the loaf’s centre. Breadcrumbs hard as wood chips, churned to the surface and spilled onto the counter. Blowing the last of the bread dust from his handiwork, he threaded a length of sturdy twine through the hole and tucked the loaf under his arm. He stepped into his boots, then out into the dark winter snow. He returned a few minutes later empty-handed. We all sat down to dinner. From the kitchen window I could see my loaf swinging like a pendulum from the tree.

Mom placed a basket of bread on the table. Its warm smell wrapped around me like the hug I was too proud to ask for. I picked the thickest slice from the middle of the loaf. It gobbled the butter I slathered across its warm surface. As I chewed, the butter dribbled down my chin and onto my plate. 

Outside, the concrete loaf hung in the tree. Even the squirrels refused it. By spring, the weather, not the wildlife, had nibbled away the hard crust, and in the process filed smooth the sharp edges of my young, rough-hewn ego. 

Thanks for reading. I’ll post a recipe tomorrow. In the meantime, stay safe. We are all in this together.
Charmian