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microwave cooking
Feb. 4th, 2005 12:32 amI thought today about how one can really defeat a good London broil by zapping it just wrong in a microwave. Just put it in, no water needed, let it overcook, and you can sample shoe leather, right there at home. I love that commercials now feature "don't try this at home!". I wish that they'd flash that, say, when Donald Trump's hair is on, or when the cast of 7th Heaven starts trying to get all relevant.
The Cleavers never needed to be relevant. They just wanted to raise the Beave up right. I'd like to learn to cook on the microwave in a real, new-fangled way. I use it to heat and warm and generally infect with temperature. I used to love the high pressure cooker, with its steam pumping out rhythmically as it tackled a roast. Cha-cha, cha-cha, cha-cha, almost an explosion in the making, but nothing exploded. The roast cooked in the pressure cooker, Sunday dinner in the making. I could probably devise some entrendre about it, but so many entendres seem to me so obvious and unnecessary, except among friends in a certain mood. I remember a college friend trying to use the word "phallic beat" about a Journey song, with a measure of accuracy, and yet with a vague attempt to be relevant. I imagine that the fellows in Journey could have hoped for no higher praise, but it rang hollow to my 20 year old ears. It was important, though, to my communicant, to show that inner knowledge of matters physical, as if plumbing were transcendence, and intimate words showed intimate knowledge. But my theme is not plumbing but the virtue of subtlety. It's not how much heat, or how much pressure is applied. It's how much finesse.
The Cleavers never needed to be relevant. They just wanted to raise the Beave up right. I'd like to learn to cook on the microwave in a real, new-fangled way. I use it to heat and warm and generally infect with temperature. I used to love the high pressure cooker, with its steam pumping out rhythmically as it tackled a roast. Cha-cha, cha-cha, cha-cha, almost an explosion in the making, but nothing exploded. The roast cooked in the pressure cooker, Sunday dinner in the making. I could probably devise some entrendre about it, but so many entendres seem to me so obvious and unnecessary, except among friends in a certain mood. I remember a college friend trying to use the word "phallic beat" about a Journey song, with a measure of accuracy, and yet with a vague attempt to be relevant. I imagine that the fellows in Journey could have hoped for no higher praise, but it rang hollow to my 20 year old ears. It was important, though, to my communicant, to show that inner knowledge of matters physical, as if plumbing were transcendence, and intimate words showed intimate knowledge. But my theme is not plumbing but the virtue of subtlety. It's not how much heat, or how much pressure is applied. It's how much finesse.
