Confessions of the Over-heated.

When does a bad habit become a way of life?

I'm afraid the answer is: when that bad habit becomes such a repeated offense that others begin to attribute it to your personality.

"Oh, that's just who she is!" they say.

"Oh no," you think. "They're absolutely right."

In attempts to detach some of these bad habits from my lifestyle, I figured I should start with confession--get them out there in the open in attempts to override them with new, pleasant and positive attributes. Here's my confession of the day...

CONFESSION: I still don't know how to use a microwave properly.

"Why do you even use a microwave at all?" you may be asking. That's a great question. I should have bagged using the "death box" (as my roommate refers to it) a long time ago. But once and awhile, when it comes down to watching a yam bake in the conventional oven (and poking it with a fork for what seems like hours only to find that it is tougher than sandstone) versus a little beep-beep-done, I opt for the latter. So sue me.

Generally, I try to limit my microwave use to reheating things. Coffee at work gets cold multiple times a day because I sip slower than molasses in January, so I reheat it. Abuelo asks for a bowl of ice cream, which might-as-well be an ice block, so I soften it...ever so slightly. Or so I'd like to think...

You see, my problem doesn't lie in using the microwave, it's how I use it. I tend to overestimate the time needed to heat a bowl of soup or warm a muffin. It's just a bad habit. If something should be heated for 10 seconds, I punch in 3 minutes. If it should be heated for 3 minutes, I punch in 9 minutes. It's weird, I realize. Weird like my obsession with filling the gas tank until the price is rounded to the nearest 10-cents. Stop pumping gas at $23.39? Heck no. Tug that trigger to make it $23.40.

I always intend to keep an eye on the food I am microwaving. I like to overestimate the time required, then just watch it till it's done. This way, adding additional seconds is never needed.

But, from time to time--life calls. The phone rings? I go answer it. Some one's at the door? I leave the room. Meanwhile, tub of ice cream becomes a river of life springing-up-a-well in the microwave. Reheated coffee blows up like a time bomb. Yam becomes toasted, undecipherable black ashes.

I exercised this "bad habit" today in the office. My coworker brought cinnamon scones. Delicious. I thought "I'll just do everyone a favor and heat them up." I slid the plate in the microwave and punched in 4 minutes (note: should have been 20 seconds). I sat watching and waiting, sniffing in the savory goodness and--RING!--darted out of the break room (with all intentions to return quickly) to answer the phone.

Turns out it was a lengthy call by a long-winded caller (who took much longer than four minutes) and before I knew it--BEEP BEEP BEEP--Oh my.

After hanging up the phone I ran to the break room, but it was too late. By this time the cinnamon aroma had immersed it's way into the entire office (and beyond) and people from the insurance agency down the hall were meandering to our office to ask why it smelled like Thanksgiving.

Burnt frosting caked the inside of the microwave. A smoky haze lingered in the air. Our breakfast was torched. Sorry guys, my bad.

Lesson learned. From here on out, my food will spend less time in the death box.